


The March

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: And Prove More Fierce [9]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Agron and Duro's backstory, F/M, M/M, Nasir's watchful shadow, The longest of long reveals, canon AU, canon era AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-06-30 00:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19842007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Sequel to The ArmyArmies, allies, and assassins.  The march north has begun.WARNINGS: Basically, if you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect. (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this fic is a Canon AU, I'm sticking with that rating.) HOWEVER, I will post warnings (such as DEATH, TORTURE, GORE (violent or medicinal), and SEXYTIMES) at the beginning of corresponding chapters. FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.





	1. Battle at Calor

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the ninth fic of the And Prove More Fierce series.
> 
> Nasir's POV (7 chapters) & Duro's POV (1 chapter)
> 
> Chapter One begins immediately after the closing scene of "The Army." If you haven't read "The Army," "Rebels," "Vesuvius," "The Path," "Fugitives," "The Arena," "The Brotherhood," and/or "The Recruit," I recommend doing so as I have not made any attempt for the individual fics to stand alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (battle), the SEXYTIMES of SEXYTIMES

Blood.

The bank of the river Calor squelched beneath heel with both gore and heavy rain. Muffled sounds of battle. Corpses melding into the muck. I knew not the name of the Roman who sent his men to challenge us. A fool of little importance.

“Ha!” I hissed, spear sliding across rain-slicked leather armor and gouging deep into nearest chink. Parting flesh.

The man was pinned, but he swung shield--

I ducked, drew gladius across his belly. Guts, steaming and stinking, poured out. Splashed wetly against my sandals.

My strength had grown since Oenomaus, as my doctore, had advised stabbing rather than slashing my way to victory.

Shoving the dying man off of spear’s barb, I spun with a grimace--

_****Clang!** ** _

Yet another fucking Roman assumed me an easy mark, easier to take than Agron or Duro or even Castus who I had last seen battling tenaciously at my young brother’s side. Was it my smaller stature which enticed this fucking provincial army to buzz around me like flies?

I kicked attacker aside absent inflicting wound and thrust spear into the face of a second, bumbling idiot.

A third at my back.

I dived, rolled, toppled the dead man at spear’s end, yanked weapon free and stabbed under the arm of the previous fuck. He should have run. I’d given him opportunity to preserve his life. Squandered.

Spinning spear in a blurred arc, I sheathed sword. I would need both hands for the spear given the numbers I faced. Teeth bared in a snarl, I took reckoning of the foes remaining as they closed in with prudent steps.

I was encircled.

I could see no allies beyond battered, Roman shields and pouring rain. Where were my Germans? Did they both yet stand? Did they search for me or were they both yet locked in their own heated battles?

Idle questions at a time such as this.

And unless I was caught in the grip of nightmare, I was moments away from being caged by a common military formation, one that would secure a prisoner.

No. I would not be made captive again.

I gripped spear tightly.

They closed in--

The man on my left slipped, skidded in the wet, loosened earth--

Him. I planted spear firmly and launched myself forward, feet slamming into his shield--

He fell--

My sandals found no purchase on the rain-streaked metal, but I skidded over his prone form and under the hasty swings of swords whooshing through air and mist and rain.

_****High ground! Defensible position! Gain feet and fight!** ** _

Yet I could barely see in the stormy, gray mist and relentless rain. There was only the fog itself to aid me. A large bush. I ducked behind it, spun and prayed I would take opponent by surprise--

Lunged forward, glimpsed an upraised arm, a form swooping in from left flank even as I kicked another’s shield wide and stabbed throat--

I cringed away from descending blade but found no escape--

I was trapped-caught-doomed--

_****Agron, apologies!** ** _

No time, no space, no--

_****Crash!** ** _

The Roman staggered back, adjusted stance--

A shadow. A figure. A man -- a rebel -- huddling over my crouched form, arm swinging with follow-through--

The slick slice of flesh.

My would-be executioner windmilled limply into the Roman coming up beside him, blood spraying from slit throat.

I glimpsed patchwork armor as the man abandoned his kill and dived to claim another.

Agron?

No.

Ally?

Yes.

I clawed at clumps of trampled grass, pulling myself upright and sending spear’s tip through Roman throat and chin. I pivoted, tossing the dying man into the soldier beside him.

How many were there?

The heavy rain and rolling mist had concealed their numbers from us, but our numbers had likewise been concealed from our enemies. Or so Spartacus had insisted.

“You would step up to battle blindfolded?” Crixus had chided the Thracian.

Gannicus had chuckled. “This will not be the first occasion!”

And it may not be the last.

It had begun with a maneuver meant to mislead: Syrians and Germans drawing out the drenched Roman foot soldiers. Steel and iron engaged and _****then****_ our true might unleashed: Celts riding in on the horses Libo kept battle-ready, and Gauls flanking from the east. Our efforts would either force these fucks into the churning river to be swept out to sea or put each and every one of them to grass.

A battle not without risk, but a confrontation in which we stood confident of holding advantage.

And yet, somehow, I had been separated from my Germans and my kin. Alone and outnumbered, I would have fought capture, would have forced these Roman fucks to kill me before I endured the feel of shackles again, but now I was aided by a rebel -- a man of unfamiliar form. I glimpsed dark hair and dusky skin as he fought at my side. Ruthless attacks. Merciless blows. I would suspect him of being taken by rage and bloodlust, except he maintained carefully calculated distance between the two of us as he juggled opponents: tumbling some, shoving aside others, and sending seemingly random men to seek the services of the Ferryman.

He fought as I did, as I had been taught to fight.

A fellow student of Oenomaus? Or Spartacus?

This man stood as a brother, regardless.

The mist puffed and swirled around us. The rain pounded applause.

The squish of footsteps. The whoosh of blades cleaving air.

A shadow lunged from the fog, shield smacking into left shoulder--

_****Thud!** ** _

Crashing-splashing-sliding into mud upon my right side--

_****Roll -- fucking roll and gain feet!** ** _

I struggled onto my knees, hand upon sword’s pommel, a moment away from drawing weapon for close combat--

My mysterious comrade leaped between us, sword deflecting oncoming blow.

I turned attention to the man rushing in at his back--

Spear point to face, sword to throat. Blood sprayed upward, splashing against the rain.

I spun just as both attackers crashed into the filth at my feet. Looked up and into the dark eyes of my unknown comrade. Was he Cilician? No. Syrian? Perhaps. Had I seen him before this moment? I could not say for certain. I had not evaluated him. Neither had I trained him. I held no knowledge of his name.

Although, given the thousands under Spartacus’ command, it would have been more surprising for me to encounter a familiar face in this chaos.

He snarled, grabbed my sword belt, and yanked me aside. Another soldier stumbling out of the fog met his end at this man’s quick blade, a forerunner of the next wave of Romans.

I fought on -- _****jab, trip, slice, stab!****_ \-- and the nameless Syrian was as a shadow of death at my back.

“Nasir!”

Thank the gods. “Agron!” I bellowed over the rain and screams, clatter and moans, splashes and thuds.

A moment and two additional kills later, my Germans shoved their way through the brush and mist and joined their efforts to mine. A third brought up the rear -- Castus.

The line that had attempted to surround me and the forces that had threatened to overwhelm were all reduced to moaning, bleeding forms in the muck. Each and every one. Duro took vicious glee in planting a gore-and-mud caked foot upon enemy skull and slicing throat, one lingering foe after another, sending the clawing-crawling-groaning shits to the afterlife.

Agron came close and I grabbed the nape of his neck, pressing our foreheads together in silent gratitude, relief, and fucking victory.

When I thought to turn and offer my arm to the man who had so swiftly come to aid, I found no one beyond the four of us. Scanning the bodies for a man of his haphazard armor and leather cap, I found none.

“The man who fought at my side before…” I began, praying that I had not lost all sense and imagined him.

Agron nodded over my shoulder. “Rejoins the main battle.”

“Where Donar attempts to make up for lost time,” Duro reported through a beaming, blood-splattered grin. “Come, brothers. Lest a reckoning prove he makes gains against us in claiming Roman lives!”

He sped past, leaping over corpses, and then jogged to a halt beside Castus. Duro thumped the man on the arm, grinning at the Numidian’s panting, wide-eyed shock. “Your manner tells this is your first fucking battle!”

Giving himself a shake, Castus reformed his composure. “I would lay eyes upon surroundings.”

“Bah!” Duro retorted over shoulder, his scoff very closely resembling the Veteran’s. “Cease your bleating. This is how we fight east of the Rhine, is it not, brother?”

“Face forward and keep sense of where you place fucking feet!” Agron bellowed at him, sweeping a hand along my back to nudge me ahead. “And you,” he spoke softly for my ears alone, “will heed my methods, yes?”

I jerked with burgeoning offense. “Your methods?”

“I’ll not lose you in the mist again,” he spoke. The chastisement was for both of us. “Let us make an ally of the fog and see this battle to proper end.”

“Hm. Let’s.”

The rain ceased before the battle was done. The mist lingered. I did not see the man who had fought alongside me, though he could be anywhere among the distant, milling forms. I did not bother squinting or searching. I was exhausted and had no energy to spare for futile endeavor.

Spartacus’ roar and the squeal of a horse summoned us to the final clutch of combatants. Duro happily added more Romans to his tally even as Castus looked on with amazement, impressed either by my young brother’s boundless energy or his fearsome thirst for blood. Or both.

Crixus, Gannicus, Oenomaus, Rabanus, Leviticus… the men who held charge of directing warriors in both training and battle, all converged upon the fallen Roman commander.

“Battle well fought,” Spartacus congratulated each of us. The sound of blades stabbing half-dead and dying Romans punched through trembling silence. Unlike the fallen, _****we****_ would live another day.

“We must determine our losses and care for the wounded. But first,” Spartacus continued, holding out a hand to delay our weary attempts to see to necessary tasks, “cast gaze upon this man’s armor. The crest?”

A moment of blank-minded contemplation as we blinked eyes into focus and considered the dead man’s chest plate. “A quaestor,” I reported, kneeling to get a closer look at the design which indicated that this man-- “Whatever he was called, his family shared an allegiance with the Tremellia Clan, who have held positions as high as praetor.”

“But not the praetor himself?” Crixus sought to clarify.

“No,” I agreed and then summoned a smirk. A tiny wellspring of misplaced and frantic humor compelled me to suggest, “Perhaps the Senate would spend them more wisely. We have already cost them two.”

Gannicus chuckled and saluted me with a bloodied blade. Leviticus snorted.

“If any survivors of rank are found, I would question them,” Spartacus informed, “on whether they held position in event of our movements north or we came upon them as they moved south to flank us in Metapontum. And whatever else we might learn of use.”

Should any such men linger among the living, I held no expectation that they would be delayed overlong in joining their fellows at Pluto’s gates. As I scoured the battlefield in order to account for my Syrians, I realized that no appreciable difference separated these dead Romans from a very much alive Castus. Both had acted upon orders to undermine us. What had earned Castus a reprieve?

The fact that Duro had spoken for him.

I could conjure no other explanation. It amazed that one voice could wield such power. But no -- I was dismissing Spartacus! A great deal more than a single man had rallied around his cry to battle, and subsequent acts of impertinence and ingenuity had garnered the interest of additional thousands. A number which swelled day by day, step by step, just as it had during our march south from Nola.

And just as then, we were now obligated to storm through the surrounding countryside, taking villas and liberating slaves… and raiding storerooms and cellars. There was no other way to feed our growing ranks while maintaining mobility.

“So many useless shits. Their weight drags,” a rough voice noted at my shoulder.

Five days and many more leagues had passed since the battle at Calor. I marveled at the throng that creaked-shuffled-staggered upon the road, hilltop providing an uninterrupted view. My smile was wan with agreement at Rabanus’ complaints. “As much as it hinders us, it hobbles Rome more. Absence from hearth and fields at a time when hands are needful.”

An army could not march absent grain. At this time last year, many of the men and women who now crowded upon the road north would normally have been set the arduous task of planting. How many fields would lie fallow because so many had abandoned charge? How much additional coin would the Senate spend on foreign crops to feed its soldiers? How many days of delay would result as they awaited ships from abroad? The thought was gratifying.

Rabanus argued: “And if Rome is numb to its own bleeding stumps?”

“We will hold advantage of surprise, will we not?” Could we bleed the Republic absent its notice until the final moment when no amount of aid would be enough to save it?

Rabanus’ rough hand clapped and clamped upon my shoulder. I endured the brisk, good-natured shaking he gave me. “At last, you think and speak as a fucking warrior.”

The recruit this man had taken under wing would have offered apologies for so much time required to see desired result. Instead, I smirked and scored a hit of my own: “Your shock proves it has been overlong since you deigned to break words with me, brother.”

“Fuck. That is truth.”

When he turned gaze toward the mountain peak rising up from distant horizon, I did likewise. A sigh escaped me. “We pass Pompeii again.”

The hand yet upon my shoulder tightened. “Your thoughts turn toward Calius.”

They did. “I may never know his fate.”

Rabanus understood. Perhaps that was the purpose for his sudden appearance at my side. Or perhaps my Germans had sent him to me, sensing that I carried a burden they could not assist in shouldering. Neither could Rabanus relieve me of it, but he had endured something similar when I had set foot toward Beneventum. Rabanus had been equally uncertain of whether he would ever lay eyes upon me again.

“Each must go his own way.” The Sardinian exhaled a blustery breath. “Only the gods can know the fate of every man.”

The gods. Did they exist at all beyond our need for some higher power to bear the weight of uncertainty?

“I for one will be glad to see a few more miserable Roman fucks on their way,” Rabanus proclaimed. “My feet itch to quicken pace and unravel the fucking Republic.”

With a shake of my head, I mused, “I hold no recollection of hearing you speak of bloodshed so impassioned.”

His jaw muscles bunched. “I am awakened from long slumber. With every Roman slain, I recall that I had once fought them.” He lifted a hand, fingers curling into a tight fist. “Friends long fallen at Roman swords. I would be the man they fought beside. I would honor them before all memory of my brothers’ faces and voices is lost to me.”

“Memory,” I echoed, “is as mortal as the man who holds it. It slips through fingers like sand. Just as dunes are formed and flattened by wind.”

Rabanus snorted. “Fucking poetic.”

I grinned, a capricious tickle in my chest. “My mind is yet a student of the classics.”

“I fill mine with thoughts of home lost and vengeance to be taken.” He squinted into the distance and nodded decisively. “I shall kill many Romans and, upon rejoining friends and family in the afterlife, count myself satisfied.”

“In the meantime, lend aid to endeavor which hastens our pace toward battle,” I spoke and invited him to join me and my Germans in taking a villa that night. He accepted.

After nightfall, we approached chosen target and fought side by side. Our blows broke bone, tore flesh, spilled blood. Neither the guards nor their master were a match for us. We were of the Brotherhood and I felt the truth of it now as I never had before: Rabanus counted Agron, Duro, and myself among his equals. The line between mentor and trainee was not simply erased -- it was forgotten as though it had never been.

We enjoyed the comforts of a roof and clean bath. Fresh bread and hot stew. Wine.

Following his shift at guard duty shared with Duro, Agron claimed the seat next to mine among our circle of comrades. A few Sardinians. A few Syrians. A German for each of their combined numbers. Castus now stood watch with Vertiscus. I passed Agron my half-full cup and listened to Rabanus tell of his own arrival at Batiatus’ ludus, his test, his first fight in the arena...

He gave an accounting of his time in Rome and I found myself incapable of voicing either inquiry or jest. My throat tightened with every word that revealed the man beyond the mentor. Remembering his earlier words which foretold inescapable doom, I wondered if his efforts to impart a record of his adventures was deliberate.

Regardless, what had perhaps begun as an offer of counsel or a distraction from concerns now weighed as heavily as a farewell.

“...and that was my final appearance in the primus,” he concluded.

I retrieved cup from Agron’s grasp and saluted Rabanus, sipping at the dregs. “I stand honored to have seen you fight in the funeral games.”

The Sardinian rolled his eyes. “Fucking liar,” he chided. “You were wrapped around your quaking German, awaiting our pup’s return from arena infirmary.”

Ah, so I had been.

Agron’s eyes narrowed. “I do not quake, old man. Your eyes fail you.”

“As they fail me now?” Rabanus taunted. “Or do you not grind teeth at the wait your cock suffers?”

An astute observation; Agron’s manner tonight was rather… needy. I snorted at the oversight; Agron had not waited so long after the battle at Calor to spend himself in my arms. We’d not bothered to erect a tent or seek space in a cart. Concealing brush, hungry mouths, rolling hips, and grasping hands had burned the lingering battle-rush from our blood.

Agron retorted, “Suffering implies lack of certainty.”

“Oh-ho!” I laughed. “You are guaranteed a place in my bed?”

With a chagrined and charming shrug of shoulder and roll of jaw, he allowed: “You are guaranteed a place in _****ours**** **.”**_ His gaze yet fixed upon mine, Agron lowered his lips to nuzzle at my bare shoulder.

Rabanus reached his limit. He shoved me even closer to my lover and ordered, “Fuck elsewhere! Before the sight of you sours belly and leeches enjoyment from wine.”

An unforgivable transgression, truly.

Agron fairly leaped to his feet at the dismissal. I was laughing too hard to push myself upright absent his strong grip upon my arm.

He steered me from the atrium and along peristylium’s corridor directly toward a guest room where a treasure trove of luxuries awaited use: four walls surrounding a soft bed piled with linens, blankets, and pillows. In the flickering lamplight, I absorbed additional treats: a pitcher of water, a pot of oil, cuts of cloth.

Turning to Agron, I playfully accused, “You prepared this in advance!”

“I did,” he proudly confessed, turning to face me, arranging himself low and close, fingertips tracing over the backs of arms, shoulders, neck.

I yet resisted his efforts: “Do you take me for a pleasure slave?”

He shook his head and my breath caught as he slid to his knees before me. “I would take you however you wish.”

Fuck the gods. All humor fled, crumbled to ash in the wake of sudden, burning desire. Gulping, panting, reaching out, I cupped his face in my hands and, bending down to meet his unblinking gaze, I informed: “You may have of me whatever you desire.”

His lips slackened and eyes grew hazy. I had never permitted him blatant free rein. He had never asked it of me. I offered it now. The acts Tiberius had been forced to endure no longer bound me in chains of rage and disgust; I would not allow shackles of any kind. I was a warrior. I was a lover. I was a free man.

Agron slowly stood, attending me with his gaze as though he expected me to startle and flee. Gruffly, he asked, “You are certain?”

I scratched my nails through his short hair. Aurelia had trimmed it very nicely days before we’d decamped. I said, “I am certain of you.”

His kiss upon my lips was soft and hot and thorough, as was his mouth upon cock and his tongue within ass. I wept under the onslaught, pressing face into pillows, clutching and clawing, surrounded by unfamiliar perfume and safety and fiery _****need.****_

Agron’s callused hands, rough whiskers, heated breath, and silken lips upon tender skin. I heard myself -- approving hisses and pleading mewls -- and my cock had never swelled so full, stretching sensitive skin to painful limit and blushing so fucking dark. With but a stray breeze or flick of agile tongue, I would surely burst, an eruption that would tear me in two.

An oil-slick hand closed around my shaft. That hot, terrible, sense-stealing tongue massaging my entrance, flicking at the rim, poking just within--ah, fuck! And then his palm slid in a raspy glide down my spine, over hip, and dipped between my wide-spread thighs to cradle balls, press insistent circles to delicate skin and--

I was not rendered into halves. I was destroyed.

Blind and deaf and Agron--by the gods--Agron-- _ ** **ah, fuck!****_

His teeth at my ear, a sharp nip which left me helplessly tingling over every inch of my skin. The puff of breath upon sweaty neck. “Return to my arms,” he whispered.

I moaned, nodded, and rolled over onto my back, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and burrowing my hands once more in his hair. I panted into his rhythmic kisses and groaned as he coaxed my thighs wide, tugging hips up, and I hissed at the wordless demand made by blunt head of cock, dripping with oil and musk. I rolled my spine toward him in demand, in invitation, in pure fucking desire: “Yes, Agron. Yes.”

Oh gods. His advance was slow and relentless, slick against the starbursts of heat and the sizzling burn of the stretch. I keened, bearing down to bring him in. Held him tighter. Only Agron. I would trust no other so completely with my body, allow him entrance following only the gentlest of preparations.

He growled against my throat. He was hot and hard, within and without. Pulsing with need and straining to hold back. Quaking. Fuck, but his cock had never felt so hard, so large. A slow drag as he pulled back and pressed--

“Fuck the gods!” I garbled, choking and teeth snapping against his ear. He rubbed slowly, gently, rolling his hips just there, just there, just there--over and over and over and ah fuck, fuck-fuck-fuck! I had no words. No breath. No senses at all beyond the timeless thrust of his cock against my pleasure--

“I cannot--cannot--Agron,” I groaned and babbled on whatever wisps of air that found their way into my leaden lungs. His forehead lowered to my chest. Breath and tongue and teeth passing over one nipple and then the other. He curled over me, pushed into me until I was on the verge of erupting again.

“Hmm,” Agron approved, his arm shifting my thigh higher onto his shoulder, reaching around to work his fingers over my cock, petting with teasing strokes. Ah, fuck, yes. Yes, just a little more and I would--!

He withdrew and I gasped, wrecked and shivering, confused--

And then his hands nudged me onto my side, his arms moving to encircle. My cheek upon his bicep and I turned my head to demand a wet kiss, mouth going slack as he pressed back inside and now it was my hips commanding my own pleasure, his cock at my disposal and--ah, hmm, fuck…

My fingers traced the edge of the bed before clamping onto his wrist and bringing his arm across my chest. I clutched his bracer for leverage and the breath exploded from my lungs, neck arching back as he matched my movements with shallow thrusts.

Anything. I had offered Agron anything and yet--this. He gave me _****this.****_ The strength of his arms bracing me. The heat of his kisses against my neck. The pleasure of his cock gliding and tugging, massaging and caressing.

“My heart,” he breathed in German. Always in German. Words of love and now this act which convinced me -- mind and body -- that he spoke true. I was his heart. He filled every corner of my being with love. I pounded and pulsed and thrummed for him.

Leaning into his form, I held tight with claw-like fingers, spread thighs and lifted knee and hooked foot behind his calf. His groan vibrated against my throat as he pulled me closer, wound himself tighter, pushed himself deeper. The bunched up blankets chafed against my throbbing cock, but Agron was everywhere else, enveloping me and -- yes, this.

Rolling, thrusting.

Needing, trusting.

Reaching, loving.

“Nasir…” he pleaded softly, his hips giving a short, juddering twitch.

My nails gouged into his thigh. “Yes,” I hissed.

His mouth opened over my shoulder, teeth pressing. A hand clamping around my tender-and-taut cock. Within me, blunt, deep, stroking relentlessly, skimming over my pleasure teasingly again and again and again and a slick caress upon head of cock and--

My second release was upon me, within me, obliterating me.

My skin flashed with such heat it left me numb.

White noise and pure light and was this what lay beyond Elysium?

I tasted leather.

A soft whimper in my ear.

The brush of beard scruff through my hair.

I fell back into awareness and Agron’s arms and blinked my eyes into focus. Agron’s bracer appeared to have gained a set of teeth marks. I laughed… or rather, I made attempt. But first I would have to learn how to breathe again.

A hand, fingers slick with cooling seed, rubbed up and down my thigh. I was yet splayed open for him, his cock nestled within but I barely felt its softened girth. The battle was over; our bodies ceded to each other.

I groped for words.

I considered voicing an order to Agron not to fucking die. It stuck in throat.

Mirthful praise for strategy well played; I desired him more than ever now. The jest lodged in chest.

Our path would take us weeks to reach the Alps and other armies would surely attempt to bar the way. I bit back the observation.

I said nothing. No words were needed between us. We were warriors and our charge was clear.

We fought for freedom of choice. I had already made mine: Agron. Agron and Duro and the man I had become due to their tireless encouragement. Each coming battle would pose threat to this choice. In order to claim it, I must fight and I must win.

“Nasir?” Agron asked, nudging his nose against my cheek.

I tilted my chin up to receive a soft kiss and gave unchanging answer: “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roman forces were led by Scrofa (Gnaeus Tremellius Scrofa), who none of rebels know by name, but yeah, this is the guy briefly mentioned in 3x01 as being defeated by Spartacus’ forces on the banks of the Calor because he’d underestimated the number of rebels.
> 
> There are two (at least two) Calor Rivers in Rome. I’m assuming the battle took place along the river that is located southeast of Mount Vesuvius and empties into the Tyrrhenian Sea (on the west coast of Italy).


	2. The Fate of Beneventum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARNINGS: ABUSE (sexual molestation, physical abuse), GORE (violence, implied maiming)
> 
> Music rec: “Hurricane” by Fleurie

“No.”

I looked up from my meal portion -- a bowl of hot stew, a true rarity upon the road -- and gaped across the campfire at Aurelia, blinking at her refusal.

Spartacus, evening meal yet untouched in hand, frowned at Varro’s widow and the babe in her arms. I had not expected her to so abruptly decline generous offer to see her and her children to her brother’s home in the hills beyond Capua. I had not expected her to refuse at all.

Had Agron been seated beside me here in the illusion of secluded camp between stalled wagons, I would have shared my confusion with him, but Saxa had pulled him away to assist Santos with distributing the night’s rations to hungry Germans, a gratifying number of whom had ignored opportunity for plunder and chosen to follow Spartacus.

Had Duro been present, our brows would have beetled in mirror image, but he had assigned himself the duty of retrieving Janus from Emesa’s charge. Hopefully, my little monsters would have sufficiently exhausted Aurelia’s son. From Varro’s enthralled musings on his firstborn, I had expected a shy child, but day by day -- and following every encounter with Duro -- the boy’s rambunctiousness doubled.

“Aurelia,” Spartacus spoke carefully, “your brother would welcome you and your children, would he not?”

She looked down into her daughter’s face and gave reply, “He would, but the men to whom my husband was indebted will have spies there as well.” She lifted the babe to her shoulder and closed her eyes tightly in denial of unavoidable fate: “The sum they demand is one I cannot pay… as a free woman.”

Somehow, the wooden spoon in my grasp did not snap in half.

Spartacus proposed, “I would supply the coin required. What amount will see accounts settled?”

“And what amount will ensure that I am not interrogated on my role in Spartacus’ rebellion?” She looked up at me. “Nasir? Have you any notion--”

A child’s shrill giggle speared the remainder of her query, but further words were not necessary for me to know her meaning. There was no amount of coin that could convince whatever interim official the Senate had appointed to oversee Campania to turn a blind eye to Aurelia’s sudden return and the rumors that would either place her among our numbers or speak of her husband’s participation in ludus uprising. The new praetor would ask questions that Aurelia would not be able to sufficiently answer. Nor could she provide proof of her whereabouts absent implication of deeds worthy of nail and cross.

“Look who I found!” Duro crowed, stepping over the pile of kindling, Janus wiggling upon my younger brother’s shoulder like a frantic fish.

“How fares Emesa?” I asked wryly, making a note to look in on her.

“Far closer to slumber than this little wild thing!”

I shook my head at how unaccountably proud Duro sounded. He plopped down on Aurelia’s other side so abruptly that Janus must have felt a moment of pure free fall.

“Doo-wo!” he screamed with glee.

Duro tugged the boy to sit upon his knees and promptly engaged him with a game of catching each other’s hands until the child collapsed with breathy laughter and a runny nose. Aurelia offered Duro a cut of cloth and I watched as my German brother carefully cleaned Janus’ hands before wiping the dust and snot from the boy’s face.

Spartacus passed his own evening potion forward, pressing it into Duro’s grasp and receiving a nod of thanks before Duro began tempting Janus with a swooping spoonful: “The hawk will bite your nose if you do not eat him!”

Gods but Duro would make an excellent father.

I glanced toward Aurelia, who was watching this large barbarian man expertly handle her son, and it was clear I was not alone in the observation. Even Spartacus’ soft grin spoke of agreement on the matter.

Perhaps forgoing her brother’s home was not such a heartrending decision.

But what would become of Aurelia and Janus if my young brother fell in battle?

I could not endure the thought. “Where do we go?” I asked, perhaps a little too loudly, of Spartacus.

“Benevetum offers many roads.”

I stiffened.

“Nasir? You anticipate some obstacle there?”

“The mountains will be difficult to traverse with so many wagons yet laden with supplies.”

Spartacus regarded me for a long moment, dissecting my hastily offered excuse. “There are river valleys as yet not too overgrown that allow passage. Do you suggest another path?”

I shrugged. “Should we not remain upon the Popila, which offers minimal resistance?”

“Such a road quickens Rome’s response.”

A valid point. Fuck. “Beneventum, then.”

“Nasir--”

“It is decided,” I interrupted and stood, seeking a moment alone.

There was none to be had. Bodies milling. Horses huffing upon lead ropes. Children running. Campfires crackling. Wooden swords clacking.

Battle. Yes. This I could do. Gladly.

My clenched hands abandoned bowl and spoon in favor of scooping up a pair of training blades. The fight was a showy, lazy excuse to delay slumber. I crashed into both men and stumbled them wide of each other to challenge their instructor:

“Doctore!” I bellowed, falling into first position. “I would test my skill.”

Oenomaus arched a brow at my rudeness. “And should I refuse?”

“You will find yourself upon back.”

He stared, evaluating. The men I had interrupted wordlessly offered their implements to the Numidian. I huffed, nostrils flaring as I endured the wait, but the man’s capable hands accepted pommels. He moved to face me.

He did not speak “Begin.” He did not command “Attack.”

Yet I performed both.

If there was a crowd, I did not see them. If there were roars of encouragement or reaction, I did not hear them. I saw only opponent. I heard only the smack and clatter of weapons. I felt only the resistance trembling up arms, jarring shoulders, throbbing in spine. I felt dust as I rolled, but no injury or forming bruise could compete against the fury vibrating through flesh, heating skin, enhancing strength. In this, I would be indefatigable.

A swift foot hooked behind mine--

I tumbled to ground--shoulder, back, knees--surged forward on a snarl--

Blow to midsection, blocked.

Slice toward throat, dodged.

_****Crack! Smack! Clap!** ** _

Our blades, all four tangled-layered-caught between straining arms.

Oenomaus slipped trapped weapon from between mine, jabbing toward hip--

I leaped back, casting his opposite arm wide and dived forward with blades crossed--

A kick to my belly--

I soared, landed hard, clawed and spat. Rose up.

“Ha!” I barked and engaged him again.

I drove him back. Back. Back.

Dull edge behind my knee. A jerk upward. Twist.

I danced through it, but longer arms and time-honed strength won out. I spun awkwardly into the dirt. Followed the momentum to feet. Met oncoming blades with my own. My rage fell as though blows from fist and--

I fought because--

Beneventum.

I refused to yield because--

Moritus. Aria. Vipio.

I threw myself at-upon-into the inevitable because--

FUCK.

The moment of formless, sightless anger saw me stumble under Oenomaus’ fist as he’d dodged strike and now shoved me ahead of my own feet.

I braced, pivoted. I was not done. This was not done. Not decided. Not fated to fucking fail.

My weapons, yet tightly clenched in bloodless fists, were cast wide.

The clatter of Oenomaus’ swords falling to ground and open palms to my chest. A shove--

Feet swept from under me--

I fell. Landed. Skull bounced against packed earth. Teeth gritted against waves of pain, I struggled to bring blades in, but hands clamped hard upon my forearms.

 _ ** **Legs!**** _ I twisted spine, bending knees to tangle opponent in mindless resistance.

“Nasir! Enough!”

That voice. Doctore.

I pushed past the blinding fury and the world rushed forward to greet me. Oenomaus’ dark eyes, brows crunched with concern. I flinched at the head-aching silence. Such dearth of sound… as though the men and women who undoubtedly looked on had witnessed some great shock.

Panting breaths -- mine. Throat searing with each dry, dusty breath. Flesh throbbing with welts, stinging with scrapes.

I could yet fight, but I would not win.

My capitulation was given: my own cramped fingers uncurled. Training swords tumbled from hands.

“I fail,” I told, confessing my plight in a choked grunt.

Oenomaus released a long breath and lifted himself up. Holding out an arm for me to take, he bid, “Rise and speak.”

I accepted the clasp. As I stood, a form shifted at forefront of observers. Agron. He took half a step forward, curiosity and confusion plain upon his face.

How could I deny him?

This time it was not memory of Varro’s words that urged mercy but Oenomaus’ hands. He reached out to cup my lover’s shoulder and guided us both away from bewildered gazes. The man had a talent for finding solitude. Where my efforts had sent me deeper into commotion, Oenomaus’ saw the three of us to a quiet copse of trees. The faint reek of urine -- ah, suddenly I understood why no one had claimed this place for night’s rest.

Piss and shit. A suitable location for the words I would break.

“Nasir?” Agron prompted when Oenomaus seemed content to wait indefinitely. I gripped my lover’s arm tightly, not to silence him but to steady myself.

Lifting face to meet the gaze of my former doctore, I inquired, “Were you told of how I'd come to be under custody of Glaber’s tribune?”

“Your path took you upon road separate from Spartacus.” It was almost a question.

Jaw clenched, I looked to Agron. He hesitated only long enough for me to nod ascent before offering explanation. Sidling close, he gave account of my reasons and the people who had followed me to either freedom or return to Roman service. Though Agron detailed my time in Atella unnecessarily, I permitted the words. The pride and awe in his tone soothing me in a way I welcomed though was certain I did not deserve.

“What,” Agron asked, bending knees to bring our gazes level, “prompts tonight’s show of combat?”

I told: “Spartacus moves our numbers to Beneventum, where Vipio and many others now make their home.”

Agron stiffened.

“I gave vow that they would have opportunity to rebuild for themselves what rebel cause had destroyed.” I showed my mangled inner arm. “Pyrrhus died as result of quest.” To Oenomaus, I repeated earlier confession: “I fail.”

The Numidian exhaled slowly. “Is Spartacus aware of this?”

Agron’s touch at back of neck. “Neither you nor Calius spoke of where duty took you.”

“In effort to protect those who yet choose to serve dominus and domina.”

Agron sighed, tugging gently at my hair so that I would cast gaze -- however irritably -- upon him. “Secrets hold no value among brothers.”

“Tell him,” Oenomaus concurred.

“And apply burden?” I rebutted. “The way to Beneventum is the surest path. The happiness of a few outweighs the freedom of thousands?”

“They stand equal by my reckoning.”

Oenomaus looked up and nodded to the man approaching me from back: Spartacus.

I closed eyes and sighed. “You witnessed all.”

He drew level and offered a wan smile. “Your troubles would lay thick indeed,” he observed, “to permit reckless abandon and lack of manners.”

I barked a laugh.

“Hm?” Agron inquired and Spartacus told of how I had bullied Oenomaus’ students aside.

“I owe apologies.”

Agron, however, did not concur with my assessment. He merely chafed my arm fondly, chuckling with stupid pride.

“Come,” Spartacus invited with a pat to my opposite shoulder, “and let us seek compromise. Away from camp latrine?”

He departed, but Oenomaus lingered long enough to say, “I know why you came to me.”

Yes, he would know the helpless anger that drives a man to madness when those who stand under his charge are threatened.

“Gratitude.”

“Speak none,” the man insisted. “Seek me out anytime you are of need.” With a nod to Agron, Oenomaus moved toward where Spartacus had slowed his steps, lingering.

I sighed. “Santos has been overrun, has he?”

Agron shook his head and cupped my face. “When I heard tell of your ongoing battle against Oenomaus… You would expect me to ignore opportunity?”

“Opportunity?”

He beamed. “To witness you at full fucking force. A sight that never fails to steal breath.”

“Hm. That stands as the cause for lack of cheers?”

He giggled and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to my lips. Fuck the gods. Even here, I thrilled to receive his affection. However, absence of piss and shit would be preferable.

“Useless goat!” Duro bleated at Agron upon our return and Spartacus’ report. “You did not send for me? I would have cheered for you, brother Nasir.”

“I hold no doubt,” I assured.

“You-less-go!” Janus explosively declared. He then flushed at the attention this outburst earned him, clapping his hands, very pleased with himself.

“So it begins,” Aurelia muttered through a breathless smile and I realized Janus had just voiced attempt at copying Duro’s words.

Fuck the gods. Agron scrubbed both hands over his face as Duro rewarded the boy’s speech by ruffling his wild curls. Except for color, their tangled mops held remarkable resemblance.

“Duro,” Spartacus observed, “perhaps the next time Nasir quits your presence absent words, you will anticipate his intent to do battle.”

“Speaks the fool that hurried after him?” my German brother teased our fearless Thracian.

Spartacus accepted the jest gracefully. Perhaps he tired of being set apart and revered. To my knowledge, Duro was the only man among our numbers who enjoyed chastising him as though Spartacus behaved as an errant recruit.

At times, though, he truly did.

If Spartacus’ faults inclined him toward lack of forethought, then mine inspired too much. What lofty aim had I endeavored to meet in swallowing tongue, guarding secrets and carefully measuring words?

I was yet stingy with sharing thoughts.

“Apologies,” I spoke to Agron as we settled down to rest. Our conference with the men of the Brotherhood regarding Beneventum had done much to allay feelings of dread… even though Acer had scoffed at my arrogance.

“Only a fucking witless moron would give such an oath voice!” the man had sneered.

Crixus had glared. “My own given to you when I became champion was equally ill advised.”

Acer had scowled and Rhaskos had snorted a grin in my direction.

“Apologies?” Agron mumbled, snuffling against my nape. “A sentiment I would have remain a far distance from our embrace.”

A nudge from my elbow. His amused grunt gusted against my ear. I explained: “I yet withhold knowledge absent intent.”

If the relaxed weight of Agron’s form along my back was any indication, he felt there was no cause for alarm. “You wage war against years of learned conduct. Would you expect me to win each battle?”

“Yes.”

“Heartless Syrian.”

“As it rests in your hands, yes, I so stand.”

His arm curled tighter over my waist. “You forget that I have given you mine?”

“Hm.” I grinned at the implication: “I possess the heart of a wild German.”

He threaded our fingers into a lazy tangle. “Never question that you do.”

Days later, the brush of callused hand against slope of shoulder spoke silent reminder as the sun rose upon a dreary market day in Beneventum. When scouts had reported sighting the city, Agron and Duro had dropped task at hand to accompany me. However, Agron had been forced to prepare both his and Duro’s packs as our young brother was too occupied attempting to appease a distraught and clinging Janus. Next time, we would do better to depart _****after****_ the little boy had fallen to slumber… lest he attempt to veto our mission with an encore of ear-splitting wails.

“Does everyone become so attached to your brother?” I’d muttered.

Quirking a brow, Agron had warbled in a quiet aside: “Asks the man who took a fucking Roman sword for him.”

He’d then leaned forward from his crouch to brush whisker-edged lips along aforementioned scar. I’d carded my fingers through his hair and hoped such drastic measures would not be required of any of us. Today or any other day.

Duro bumped my arm. “Stand you ready to be a shit-sucking slaver?”

Hopefully for the last time.

Agron reached around my head to smack Duro on the back of skull. “And you a cock-fuck Roman guard?”

From my lover’s tone and Duro’s expressive grimace, our roles stood equally detestable.

We circled through the forested slopes toward the road from Capua. As we moved, so did each of the ten teams who accompanied. Rabanus, Fulco, Gannicus, Fortis, Rhaskos, and five other men who yet bore the brand of the Brotherhood led four men each. While we three worked within the city itself, they would observe the comings and goings of its people, including the movements of its militia, from concealing distance.

Descending from the shelter of woodland shade, the three of us made approach to the temple where a Roman that I had fooled once still resided. A good place to test our reception in Beneventum.

“He yet sleeps,” we were told by a familiar young man. The brother I had purchased at city slave market. He yet lived and was now respectably dressed, though discerning eye revealed no trace of contentment about him. Rather, he vibrated with tension as he met us on temple steps, delaying our entrance.

I inquired of his master’s slumber, “Until what hour?”

We broke our fast seated in the shade with dried fruit, stale bread, and other tidbits that had clearly been procured from the offerings of supplicants as recently as yesterday if the bacon was any indication.

When I caught the young man’s mistrustful glare as he hauled water, I nearly asked after his sister. Why did she not assist? Duro and Agron were both ill at ease, though their tension could be attributed to alertness. They were guards, after all. I, on the other hand, had no recourse but to lounge confidently until temple priest shuffled from his bed.

“What fucking brings you here?” the Roman sourly grouched, squinting against the sunlight. “And so unburdened of wares.”

I stood and shrugged. “Eh. These times are trying for us all, are they not?”

He grunted.

“I will be brief,” I prattled on. “I would rent your boy for the day.”

“For fucking?”

In the shadows, the young man showed no surprise. Rather, he drew a measured breath, bracing himself. “I make no objection to paying that rate,” I offered, reaching into purse for coin, “but no. He knows the city streets well, does he not? I wish him to facilitate numerous errands. Business calls me away; I cannot linger.”

“Hm.” The priest named a price.

I called him a shit sack-fucking dog.

He named a lower sum… which I paid with a roll of my eyes. “Only because I yet hold gratitude for offered hospitality, you stingy cunt.”

The satisfied smirk fell from his lips the moment he turned away and, clutching tightly to payment weighting palm, barked to the young man: “Rouse your lazy fuck of a sister! She attends temple visitors in your absence.”

As he hurried to comply with order, I spoke compliments of the temple’s state of repair and teased the priest: “Appreciation flows as wine, eh?”

“The last of which I swallowed in the night,” he warned me, sensing that I might request a cup.

I cackled. “Gratitude for vomiting lies in place of bile.”

The man snorted. Motion from the shadows drew his bleary gaze. “Arrange yourself!” he commanded the young woman who visibly fought a wince. Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. I could not begin to imagine the pain she suffered as she adjusted her gauzy garments to expose a single breast.

Her brother stared at me blankly as the priest ambled over and stroked the girl, snarling with disgust when her nipple remained soft and fleshy. He slapped her breast. Pinched it. I could heard Duro’s slow, furious inhalation at my back.

“Take your station and attend to guests.” With a jerk of his thumb, the Roman sent the young woman’s brother in our direction. “Once they’ve finished with you, return to your duties.”

“Yes, Dominus.”

 _ ** **Yes, Dominus.****_ The words cracked over my form like the bite from a whip. It had been months since I’d heard the title spoken with respect. The sound of it in the young man’s soft voice exploded open memories. Moments I’d assumed buried.

They were not.

Fuck.

 _ ** **I stand a slaver,****_ I reminded myself. _****This is accustomed treatment.****_

Instead of asking the brother what ailed his sister -- instead of asking for his fucking name -- I instructed him to show the way to the domus of a wealthy family, which I named.

He said nothing as he led us into the street.

I could only imagine how he burned beneath his skin. I burned alongside him.

 _ ** **Soon,****_ I wished I could say. _****Spartacus comes soon and we will take you and those you love far away should you hold desire for freedom.****_

“Hold a moment,” I urged once we were beyond sight and shout of the temple. “My errands are numerous. I would ask to take the most direct route.” I listed the other families to whom I had sold slaves.

He blinked at me, but spoke not a word before nodding and altering course.

At the first domus, I sent the young man ahead to inquire after Moritus, who served this household. “Say your dominus has been inundated with gifts from overreaching supplicants that he would share should a man be available to come retrieve them.”

The young man hesitated, eyes narrowing for briefest moment, and then he knocked upon the rear gate.

“I will gut that fucking Roman swine,” Duro hissed.

Agron thumped his arm, jaw locked with fury.

Mindful of the soft patter of footsteps and milling forms that passed at lane’s end, I agreed quietly, “You are welcome to use my sword.” I would not require it for skinning the treacherous shit with bare fucking hands.

Many homes in Beneventum seemed to utilize rear alleys for the efficient and unseen passage of slaves charged with daily tasks. A boon for our forces awaiting word to invade. Our plan relied on darkness and the assistance of men and women familiar with alleys such as this one.

Vipio, Aria, and many others would rather aid our quest for food and supplies in the dead of night than risk Spartacus’ followers crashing through their town by day. Once bloodlust took hold, nothing would spare the Romans of Beneventum.

Though I was sorely tempted to abscond with the temple priest bound and gagged as an offering to their blades.

A long moment later, the gate opened again just as I heard activity further within the yard. Shuffling footsteps and a command to begin exercise of some sort. I was distracted by the sight of not only our guide, but a woman of middle years emerging with him. She glanced up and down the lane, shoulders hunched and wiping her hands upon threadbare apron. The two smallest fingers upon her left hand were missing.

As she drew close, both Agron and Duro grasped sword pommels in readiness.

Her gaze flickered, taking in the silent threat. The boy watched us carefully.

I held out a hand to stall Agron’s attack. My body shifting into first position absent intent.

“You seek Moritus?” she whispered.

There was little point in denying it. I had mentioned the man by name and the slave boy clearly possessed the wits to discern my aim. I nodded. “Does he set foot beyond these walls today?”

“If he does, what would you have of him?”

“Words only,” I promised, heartened by the protective gleam in her eyes.

She nodded jerkily. “Very well. I will see to it. Intercept him before he reaches the market. Do not allow him to be seen lingering with you or your men.”

“Gratitude.” When I endeavored to push a coin into her grasp, she held up both hands and stepped back in refusal. “You are easily convinced to aid me,” I observed, puzzled.

“Either way, his torment will soon be at an end.”

Her words were nearly an inquiry. I questioned, “His torment?”

Her chin jerked toward the wall and the muffled sounds beyond. Agron stiffened just as I realized why I had not been alarmed earlier. I had heard such noises daily at Metapontum. As recruits were paired up for sparring, wrestling, bare-fisted combat.

Mouth unhinged. I was forced to swallow in order to summon enough spit for dry tongue and throat. “You cannot mean he endures--”

I could not finish the thought aloud.

“He endures,” she replied, lifting her mutilated hand for inspection, “as all of us have learned to endure.” Glancing toward our guide, she begged, “Take care, Nolan.”

“I will.”

She hurried back though the gate and returned to charge.

Agron, Duro, and I listened to the muted thuds of fists striking flesh. A body falling to ground.

“Gain feet and prove yourself worthy of my patronage!”

Gasping breaths. I held mine. Straining to hear, praying I would not--

“Yes, Dominus.”

“Guards! Continue exercise.”

Unthinking, I groped for Agron’s arm. Clutched his straining bicep. His hand covered mine. Summoning strength, I unlocked jaw and whispered to the young man: “You are called Nolan?”

“I am.”

“And your sister?”

“Sysia.”

“What ails her?” Unless it was recent, it likely stood as the reason she had nearly been sent to the mines.

“Headaches. Such pain. I protect her as best I can.” His hands fisted with fury at his own uselessness.

Facing him squarely, I vowed, “I can promise neither successful treatment nor reward of coin, but I would make effort to equal that which you put forth.”

Duro nodded, adding his own oath to mine.

Nolan agreed, a measure of fury fading from him. “Come. I know where you may speak privately with Moritus on his errand.”

So he did. Agron, Duro, and I were surprised to find ourselves within the small kitchen of a humble domus. A household served by Nolan’s aging mother, her domina long of years and confined to bed.

“You will see Moritus from this way,” Nolan pointed. “Do you require distraction to draw gazes?”

“We will see to it,” Duro volunteered himself and Agron. Duro bumped my shoulder with his fist. Agron pressed a quick, fervent kiss to my temple. They returned to the street and loitered, bickering occasionally out of boredom.

It was not long before I spotted Moritus just as Nolan had said. He stumbled toward the market, a hood over his bowed head and an empty cloth for purchases clutched in hand.

As he drew near, I threw open the door and pulled him within. He flinched away from me on instinct and jammed his hip against kitchen counter, huddling and trembling.

“Moritus,” I spoke, dimly hearing Agron’s voice rising and Duro’s bleating reply. Even Nolan seemed drawn by their manufactured argument. I whispered the man’s name over and over. “Moritus, cast gaze upon me and speak. Speak, friend.”

He lifted his chin, exposing skin to weak sunlight.

I gasped, horrified by the welts and bruises. I had overheard his beating, yes, but his condition was… bruises upon bruises upon bruises. Layers of pain and mistreatment. “What has become of you?”

When I held out a hand, a single sob escaped his throat. One hand upon sword pommel and the other spanning his shoulders, I permitted him to gaze upon me until he seemed certain I was neither shade nor fevered imagining.

“This town -- you must leave at once,” he pleaded. “The Romans here are gripped by madness.”

As touched as I was by his warning, I made no move to obey. I asked, “Madness?”

“Aria is dead -- stoned in the square.”

My blood chilled within veins.

He added, breathless with fear, “Vipio took his own life.”

“Moritus, breathe deeply and gather senses. Good,” I approved of his visible effort to achieve calm. “Very good. Now speak. What of this madness? The citizens are ill?”

“Made so out of fear of Spartacus. My dominus demands -- for the smallest errors--” The man’s throat closed and I had to remind myself that he was not a German; he would not find solace in uninvited touch.

“What does he demand?” I implored, ducking close to catch his frantic eyes.

“I must beg to be beaten,” he shamefully whispered. “I must plead for the honor of assisting his guards with training and any punishment is--for this delay as well, I must prove my devotion to his household and submit to--I cannot--such has never--please,” he sputtered, tears spilling down his battered, swollen cheeks.

Unthinking, I opened my arms and he collapsed against me, weeping. I staggered under his weight… which was disconcertingly less than expected. “Shh,” I soothed him. “I will see you to safety, friend.” I met Nolan’s gaze over Moritus’ too-thin shoulder and recklessly promised, “You and as many who wish it will be removed from this place.”

Nolan watched me stroke his back in silence. Nolan’s mother slouched in the doorway, clenched fist held to her lips.

Moritus required another long moment before his breath hitched in an effort to gather himself. I turned him toward a bucket of clean water and washed his face gently. “Tend to your charge this day. Find your way to domus gate after nightfall and I will see your suffering to an end.”

“Kill me if you must.” He gulped a lungful of air. “I would prefer it at the hands of a friend.”

I could not swear that it would not come to that. “Regardless, I will not leave you here again.”

Moritus nodded and glanced toward Nolan. “He has my trust. He will do right by us. By us all.”

“I believe so,” Nolan whispered.

I quickly arranged Moritus’ hood and asked after the others I had sold at market. Too few remained. Once I sent Mortius on his way -- Agron and Duro yet drawing out their quarrel just shy of landing blows -- I gauged Nolan’s reaction.

His lips twitched into a wry grin. “I knew you were no slaver.”

I coughed a silent laugh. Nodding toward the door, I invited, “There is work to be done if this day is to be your last in this shithole.”

Determination hardening his expression and clenching jaw shut, he rubbed his mother’s arm and then set foot toward threshold.

In carefully shushed mumbles between one domus and the next, Nolan told me of how a single wealthy Roman, powerful and cruel, had ordered one of his own slaves crucified as punishment for idleness. His example had swept through Beneventum like a blaze. The weakest, the oldest, the least valuable slaves offered up to public torment and death, driving all others to prove themselves of use, accepting any abuse in order to see another sunrise absent iron nails spearing flesh.

Nolan was returned to temple duties as swiftly as could be convincingly managed. He even produced a false limp as though he’d been fucked harshly.

The priest demanded extra coin for his late return and overuse. Again, I negotiated a lesser sum.

And then Agron, Duro, and I set course to cross paths with the team nearest Spartacus’ position.

“Bring Crixus and Naevia,” I told Fortis. “The Romans of this fucking town are as rotten as the rest of them.”

His gaze slid past my shoulder toward Beneventum, lip curled on a sneer. With a wave of his arm, the four Numidians that accompanied him took off at a run.

Agron held me close; Duro’s hand on my shoulder.

Darkness fell.

The night watchmen were easily removed from post.

Moritus met us at the gate with the woman of middle years in tow, her hand gently clasped in his. They showed us to Beneventum’s granary and storehouses and offered to stand guard alongside us to ensure no valuable food or supplies were set alight in the coming onslaught of vengeful rebels.

Though, given what we had faced at the Calor and in villa after villa, it was not much of a battle to speak of: wealthy families with guards were overrun. As Crixus led our combined forces through the city, one door after another was thrown open. Romans still groggy from sleep and wrapped in robes or sheets were thrust forward to receive judgment by the hands that would have cared for them in sickness and old age.

Only Rome could so thoroughly destroy what goodness might take root in a community.

Nolan himself slit the priest’s throat in city square.

As the sun rose, I found myself staring blankly at the remains of collars that littered the street, kicked aside and curled in blood-filled gutters.

Agron and Duro embraced me from front and back. I sighed against Agron’s raised scar, torn between gratitude that we did not tear unwilling slaves from hard-earned position and fury at the idiotic fear that had prompted so much cruelty. Rome itself had fueled this revolt.

Gratitude and fury. I knew not which to hold to, so I held fast to my lover and my brother.

These two Germans had never wavered.

I would endeavor to do likewise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been on the lookout for an excuse to bring Nasir and Oenomaus together in another moment of camaraderie. I personally think these men really understand where the other is coming from: they both made decisions at a young age regarding what their main motivations were and they worked hard, eventually find themselves in positions of respect where they oversaw the well-being of other slaves. I mean, I see some parallels between being a good doctore and being a good head-of-household/body-slave.
> 
> I’ll admit that my mind went to some pretty dark places with regards to the fate of the slaves in Beneventum, but in the end I just decided to let the Romans destroy themselves. Their own fear and paranoia turns loyal servants against them and just fans the flames of revolution. One could argue that Romans must realize, on some level, that the way they treat their slaves is wrong because otherwise, they wouldn’t be so terrified of what could have been a mediocre rebellion. (And this was far from the first uprising of slaves that Rome had seen thus far.) I wonder if Spartacus’ following gained so many participants half because of Spartacus being an inspiration and half because of Rome’s response to the rebellion. I hope this chapter shows (at least a little bit) how Rome could have been its own worst enemy.


	3. From the Arena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (battle), DEATH (of a canon character)
> 
> Music rec: “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes (Glitch Mob Remix)

Defeated.

Word reached us on the tongues of survivors: a rebel army had fallen to a legion of Roman soldiers upon the distant slopes of Garganus, and now that same Roman force, numbers scarcely diminished, marched north to overtake us, pursuing in the wake of the few who had evaded death and capture.

Nemetes was unaccounted for.

More than half of the men and women who had stood with him slain.

One returning, familiar face after another told shameful tale again and again absent variation.

Fucking gold-lusting shit. Nemetes had been no more a commander than Rhaskos was a minstrel. I would not deign to call his unguided rabble an army. Despite holding far greater numbers, their uncoordinated front and easy defeat was precisely what Rome had always expected of wayward slaves.

Stupid, useless fucks. What had venture gained them? They stumbled and shuffled into camp, pitifully bedraggled, possessing the clothes upon back and little else. They had sought fortune on their own terms, but now sought safety among _****our****_ numbers with the might of Rome on their heels. A Roman legion clinging as fucking shadow.

My hands ached; I gripped sword and spear too tightly, wishing I could beat and bruise fucking sense into each and every one of these selfish cowards. They sought to conceal themselves among the elderly, among children, among women heavy with child, and among those maimed by Roman masters. Not long ago, I had hoped that Nemetes’ followers would return to us, but not in this manner. They gave no consideration for anything beyond procuring a shielding form to huddle behind.

I stared hard at Nolan, too few days spent in freedom with the ruins of Beneventum at back. Vitus had offered to instruct him. They now sparred as Salaminias relieved nearby wagon of its exhausted horses and hitched just-fed replacements in their stead.

Sibyl nudged Sysia through training forms. A measure of precious opium had given the young woman enough respite to enjoy genuine slumber, necessary for recovery. I wondered about nightmares. If neither brother nor sister suffered them due to recent memory, then this news would surely prompt terror and dread in sufficient quantities.

Fuck.

“Who would you skin with that fucking look?” Duro asked idly, confident that he could make a guess.

I confirmed his suspicion: “Nemetes.”

He harrumphed, the sound dry and made sharp with viciousness. “I too would enjoy killing the useless fucking wretch.”

“For the insult to all warriors who claim to hail from east of the Rhine?” I probed, tone flat with expectation of Duro’s agreement.

It was Agron who gave reply. “Fucking Batavian. The Cattans were well rid of the Roman-loving fucks.”

Duro mumbled petulantly, “So stands the only honorable decision the Cattan people have made.”

I latched onto the only word of which I could make sense: “Some foreknowledge of Roman movements would be welcome.”

Agron’s chin twitched aside. He squinted at me in confusion as Duro threw his arms up toward the overcast sky.

“They gain on us!” Duro blurted. “What more need we know?”

With narrowed eyes, I retorted, “Yet at speed, absent return to the city of Rome for accolades.”

“Task set is yet unfinished,” Agron pointed out. “Spartacus still lives. And his cause continues to draw followers.”

“But makes laughably slow progress.” I shook my head, eyeing the mountains to the west. “A legion makes haste from the south. I would ask what descends from the north…”

My gaze turned that way. Neither Duro nor Agron offered comment, though I sensed the wary glance shared between them.

Abruptly, I decided: “I must break words with Spartacus.”

We were forced to enlist three very tired horses to quicken our search for the man among the intermittently plodding masses. Mira heard my shout before the Thracian took heed; she grabbed his arm, pointing toward our approach.

“What news have you heard from survivors of Garganus?” I asked before I’d dismounted.

He answered, “Their numbers halved and Nemetes presumed dead.”

“And the Roman legion takes no pause for rest, resupply, or reward.”

Spartacus squinted. “They pursue?” He glanced over his shoulder toward the south.

I agreed with the unspoken line of his thoughts: “As though they are given orders to assist another force?”

The Thracian pivoted and considered the north.

“How far ahead do our scouts ride?” Mira asked tersely.

Agron answered, “Only as far as the next crossroads. To see the way clear for this fucking caravan.”

Against the militia at Calor, so short a distance had sufficed for preparation. Against not one but possibly two legions, it would not.

“Goatfuck,” Duro remarked, casting gaze over our slow-moving numbers.

“We lack formation for defense,” Mira summarized.

Wagons -- and the people who centered their days around them -- took pause for food and rest whenever inclination presented. Small camps here and there, which would later make gains upon the very same groups that had previously shuffled past them. This was hardly an army; it more closely resembled scattered rabbit shit along the road.

Sharing a look with Spartacus, she promised, “I will see to it.”

Agron, Duro, and I gathered volunteers for long distance survey in _****all****_ directions. It took the better part of the day to spread word and shift weapons closer to hand. Men and women who had happily thought only as far as their next meal or bed, now looked over shoulder, knife tucked into belt or sword wedged against side of cart, pommel up and ready for use.

That evening, I held no desire for rest, but Agron insisted. I sat beside him in the company of Duro and Aurelia’s family, watching Spartacus across the way yet in conference with the shepherds and herdsmen who had abandoned post upon sighting our caravan and contributed their master’s flocks to our provisions. Such men had given us knowledge of the land surrounding Vesuvius. Would that our next victory were so assured by their words.

Agron shifted, drawing my attention. “How can I tempt you to fucking sleep?”

“Hm. Perhaps I forget how it is done. You might provide demonstration?”

“And you will follow example?”

When I nodded, he reluctantly settled down, looping an arm around my bent knee. I petted his dusty hair as I took first watch. Duro boggled at the sight of his brother taking rest before either of us. I lifted a finger to my lips, warning him against barking a laugh or an oath of amazement.

Halfway ‘til dawn, I patted Agron’s shoulder. He sat up on a yawn and pressed a kiss to my cheek. I tucked myself against his side and convinced eyes to close--

“Nasir, awaken.”

I startled upright at Agron’s urgent tone. The sun had risen, but was concealed behind thick clouds. I scowled at having overslept, but the sight of Adal breaking words with Duro had me swiftly gaining feet.

“--Vertiscus remains with, ah, Nasir!” Adal greeted with a tired smile. “You are summoned.”

“By whom?” I rasped, my throat sore from lack of water and overabundance of cool night air.

Adal passed me what I recognized as the water skin Aurelia kept on hand. Duro must have offered it in aid of easing words.

“Roman legion has been sighted to the north, moving to obstruct our path. Lysandros makes report to Spartacus. But a scout bears message for the Syrian Nasir.”

“A Roman scout?” I doubted.

Adal shook his head, bemused. “A Gaul.”

“A Gaul seeks conference with me and not Crixus?” This was a thing unheard of. Duro, Agron, and I passed confused frowns between us.

“Vertiscus waits with him.” Adal gestured loosely, indicating direction through dense forest.

Agron growled, displeased by the unexpected. “I break words with Spartacus.”

Duro waved Adal over to the embers that remained of the meal fire for food and rest. I gathered allies: Rabanus, the Veteran, and Rhaskos. Crixus insisted upon joining the venture. Naevia stood at his side.

“I would come as well,” Spartacus began, but Agron’s disbelieving huff halted the Thracian’s words.

“And an impressive form you are at this hour,” my lover pointed out.

Indeed. Had Spartacus slept at all during the night? From the look of him, I would wager he had not.

I argued, “Your voice is more readily heeded here.” And these people would need his guidance should a raiding party strike. It was a truth with regards to Spartacus, but the same argument would hold no weight with the Numidian who assisted Salaminias with readying mounts for swift travel.

Agron snatched the reins of his horse from the man’s grasp, the animal rearing its head back at the abrupt motion. Agron did not order Castus to remain in the mixed company of the caravan -- Nemetes had ensured that damning rumors had spread to every pair of ears. Despite bonds forged in battle, not everyone trusted this former pirate, and the majority of the man’s allies now departed camp.

Rather than suggest Lugo and Totus abandon charge to guard him, Agron crunched out between gritted teeth: “Set your aim to acquiring additional friends.”

The former pirate beamed at Agron’s reluctant invitation.

With a smirk, Duro teased the Numidian, “Was that not the gist of your first words to me?”

Castus returned jest, “Before or after I insulted the men from your homeland?”

The Veteran snorted.

Crixus gruffly volunteered, “A challenge simple enough for a child to master.”

“That stands the reason you’ve yet to excel?” Duro recklessly taunted as Agron checked snugness of saddle’s girth.

“The pup nips at heels, heedless of being shit upon,” the Gaul answered.

Naevia cleared her throat, bumping Duro’s shoulder in passing as she claimed her horse.

My young brother was undeterred. “How the Gauls envy us, eh, Agron?”

“As ever,” Agron agreed obliquely, flicking Duro’s ear before shoving him toward a horse. As Duro obediently pulled himself astride, Agron singsonged, “Ass to saddle’s seat while it remains absent impression of Gaulish foot, brother.”

Duro barked a laugh, nearly tumbling to the ground when the sound startled his mount, but he clung to the saddle and grinned in triumph at maintaining dignity.

I shook my head on a fond but weary sigh. Fucking Germans.

Yes, my fucking Germans, who would stand with me until the afterlife and beyond.

Would today be that day?

No. It would not.

With every stride, my determination only grew until a shrill whistle echoed through the trees, guiding us near. Moments later, I drew to a halt before Vertiscus. He sat astride where Adal had left him to keep watch.

The messenger yet remained at a distance further, also astride. I did not doubt that he was accompanied, companions unseen.

“Permit us to break words first,” Naevia quietly spoke, indicating herself and Crixus. The Veteran and Rabanus nudged mounts forward to include themselves in the group.

“Gratitude,” I answered, “but I would ask you to remain.” Were this a trap and an arrow or spear meant for me, I would not have my friends -- leaders and instructors who stood as the backbone of Spartacus’ army -- fall to trickery or dishonest scheme.

To Vertiscus, the Veteran demanded: “A position that affords view?”

He nodded to a copse of trees crowded upon a slight swell. A trickling stream bordering it. Crixus and Naevia moved to claim vantage point. The Veteran and Rabanus following reluctantly.

“How many stand with him?” Agron asked, nodding toward the messenger from Gallia.

“I glimpsed another rider at a distance.”

Despite the appearance of benign meeting, there was only one way to know that we were not deceived.

My horse jolted forward a step before I realized I’d locked every muscle in preparation for battle. Agron and Duro commanded their mounts forward.

“Do not,” I breathed, heart clenching at the thought of their loyalty to me manifesting in their downfall.

Duro huffed in affront. “What--fucking--! You would have us abandon you _**now?”**_

Castus gazed at me in astonishment.

Leather reins creaked in Agron’s grasp.

I argued, “It is a Syrian he asks for.”

And neither Agron nor Duro held even faintest hope of convincing anyone with eyes that they hailed from my homeland. In addition, their presence would reveal too much of my trust in them and our attachment to one another. After the disaster of Beneventum, no, I would not risk another foolish assumption or error in judgement.

Castus relented first, settling in to wait.

Duro disagreed. Shook his mangy head. Opened mouth to object, but it was Agron who hissed, “Such glad news: Gauls embrace Syrians as brothers.”

“Accompany me, then. Germans would be even more welcome,” I retorted. Too harshly.

Agron and Duro shared both a look and a moment of wordless anger, at me or themselves or perhaps all three of us, but their grip slackened upon reins and I kneed my mount forward. Alone.

My horse had taken three strides before I noted the echoing hoof beats of a second. Rhaskos drew level.

Assuming his presence was meant to provide evidence that I was a friend of his people, I accepted offered assistance and inquired, “You would break words with a kinsman?”

“Or bones.” He shrugged amicably. “I’d rather gain a new song.”

“Cock no longer rages on?” I commiserated.

He chuckled. “It rages for additional horizons to conquer!”

At this point, the messenger had a clear view of my mirth. I made no effort to hide it. I said, “An admirable ambition.”

Rhaskos sent me a quick look. “A pity you were caged with those brothers. You would have been welcome to celebrate with us Gauls.”

“Following fees exacted by Liscus and Crixus.”

“Eh. The hall is my domain. You would find welcome there, brother.”

“Gratitude, Rhaskos.” I hesitated only long enough to gauge distance to this self-proclaimed messenger before adding: “For evaluation upon our first day as brothers and your part in my liberation from arena as well.”

“A pleasure,” he insisted with relish and I spoke no more on the matter. A moment later, Rhaskos threw back his head, chin lifted in confrontation and bellowed what sounded very much like an insult on the stranger’s parentage.

The man answered in kind, irritated, and looked to me. In common tongue, he spoke: “My belly aches for meal. You are the Syrian Nasir?”

Before I could phrase a reply, he reached beneath his bracer and removed a wrinkled cut of cloth. My jaw slackened and I gaped as he lifted it for me to better see.

Fuck the gods.

“If you claim to have received that as a gift, I would set eyes upon its former bearer’s corpse!” I demanded angrily.

“No corpse passed this into my hands.”

“Then tell me what became of the man who treasured it.”

“He lives.”

I repeated flatly, “He lives… and yet it is not his hand that holds dear keepsake.”

“The hand belongs to his kinsman’s,” the messenger replied. “A nephew who would embrace as brother the man who released his uncle from Roman yoke and sent him home to loving arms.”

I sat back; my mount shifted to bite at an itch upon upper leg. “You are nephew of Gordianus?”

There was little resemblance, but I would expect none. After five years of service to Rome as a gladiator, Gordianus’ face and form had been mangled by scars and weathered by agony.

“I am. And you are…?”

“The man he faced upon the sands of Capua for his final match.” Again, my gaze fell to the tattered cloth. Not for the first time, I wondered how he had managed to hold tight to token from home. How had it not been stripped from him upon his capture or by Roman master?

Perhaps I would soon have the chance to ask if--

“Gordianus seeks me?” I questioned.

His nephew nodded and carefully folded the cloth before tucking it away. “His journey home a success, and his renown gathered many warriors. Sharing his hearth we all heard tales of Spartacus and the Syrian Nasir.”

Rhaskos’ brows quirked. “And now the might of Gallia would challenge us?”

A brief, frustrated glare. “We would join you.”

By the gods. I kept my jaw from unhinging only by some length of pride. “Your offer, though welcome, comes upon the cusp of battle,” I cautioned.

He nodded. “I skirted a Roman legion to reach your scouts.”

Fuck. “By the time word of our meeting is received by Gordianus--”

“There is time.”

Now I did gawp at him. “You claim Gordianus is so near?”

He grinned.

By the gods.

“Gordianus stands nearby?” Spartacus repeated upon my return and conclusion of breathlessly given report. The Thracian stared hard with amazement and disbelief.

I nodded. “Fifteen thousand strong. They hold position in the hills to the west of advancing legion.”

“You trust this man’s word?” the Thracian prodded.

My jaw clenched as I took pause to examine the memory of our encounter.

“He was no Roman,” Rhaskos insisted.

“It is a risk,” I allowed, “for I have no proof that it was Gordianus’ loyal kinsman with whom I spoke. But I was shown evidence: either Gordianus extends trust or he is dead.”

Duro’s lips pursed. His chin jerked to the side, visibly unhappy.

“If he is dead, why bother with pretense?” Agron mused irritably and every form comprising our conference shifted, fidgeted, frowned.

All of us were upon edge. We felt the unceasing progress Roman soldiers made from both directions -- every moment of inactivity was as a booming footstep, threat marching closer, closer, closer. A weight creeping and clawing over form from toe toward neck.

“Purpose of pretense is to persuade us to divide our forces,” Spartacus explained. “Reports tell of swift advance made by the legion in the south. We must not be caught between the armies. Rather, we face them one at a time.”

I concurred in silence. If we permitted Rome to surround us, they would loosen arrows and ready catapults. They would battle in shifts, day and night, until we were all of us ground into dust.

Spartacus turned toward Gannicus and Oenomaus. “Stay with the caravan. Assemble a force to guard against attack from the south. Use cavalry and strike for their catapults and arms. Delay any attempt at formation of Roman infantry.”

Oenomaus ignored the seeking look Gannicus sent him. Crossing his arms, he assumed, “You will clear the path ahead.”

“As promised, yes. The caravan must continue northward.” His gaze swept over me, my Germans, Crixus and Naevia: all of us bound by battle and spilled Roman blood. “Gather your warriors for swift travel. We move north at dusk and attack at dawn.”

A chill skittered down my spine. The northern legion was dangerously close indeed if we could traverse the distance in one night, arrange ourselves to advantageous position, and launch attack. Well, regardless, a rebel-led assault would hold greater chance of success on the morrow than it would the day after. Every hour we denied the Romans for preparation could mean dozens of lives spared.

I assembled my Syrians.

Cholle and Oruros were charged with drilling the other children on defense and swift, unseen attack.

Youths with skill in archery were ordered to ready themselves and practice at nearby treeline in brief shifts.

The men and women skilled in combat were permitted to choose their place: a mobile assault to the north beside Spartacus or the likelihood of inescapable combat against the gaining south. Unlike those who attacked to the north, men and women who defended the caravan would not be permitted the luxury of retreat were the tide of battle to turn against them.

More than half indicated that they would remain and lend aid to defend. I had never been prouder to call Syria my homeland.

“Donar aside, do any Germans remain with the caravan?” I inquired as I approached Duro and Agron. They sat so close their knees nearly knocked together, sharing whispered words.

Agron leaned away and shifted to open a space for me to join them.

Duro rolled his eyes. “Ha! Words pour from a wellspring of humor.”

“Hm,” I remarked, taking a seat and forming the third point of our trinity. “Gannicus remains. I had thought Saxa perhaps…”

“She joins us at sunset,” Agron informed quietly.

“And not a moment thereafter.” Duro chuckled in bemusement. “Too many days absent blood spilled or training taken. Should Romans offer themselves too few in number, she may burst from frustration. I almost pity the enemy.”

Agron’s gaze flicked up at that. Jaw clenched as he pointedly did not look my way and -- fuck. Glancing between my Germans, my eyes were opened to their tense shoulders and persistent frowns. Aggravation drawn not by coming battle, but by me and my insistence in answering today’s summons.

I blurted, “I would not insult either of you -- you know that stands not the reason I asked to break words with the messenger absent your presence.”

Agron’s jaw rotated as he pulverized words between molars.

“Do we three yet stand as brothers?” Duro challenged in somber tone.

I blinked. Looked to Agron. Spoke but a word: “Always.”

At last, his gaze met mine.

Into the silence of the moment, Duro nodded and slapped his thighs as though reaching conclusion: “Two Germans -- such a warm welcome for any lone Gaul.”

A breath of laughter escaped me at his sudden show of boyish cheer. Gods forbid a poor, road-weary Gaul be outnumbered by Germans. Yes, I would have that stand as the reason. 

I teased, “Crixus would agree -- ‘pup’ is a form of endearment, is it not?”

Agron chuckled briefly, helplessly, and I was pleased with that meager reward. I reached out and Agron grasped my fingers. Held tight.

“Beneventum,” Agron abruptly spoke and I stiffened, caught out. Duro watched as his older brother targeted guilt and speared it: “You hold no blame for fucking Roman madness.”

Roman madness. Sickness spurred by fear. The rebellion itself had driven the citizens to commit uncommonly harsh abuses. I alone held no exceptional claim to blame. Either fault rested with all of us or none of us. Fuck the gods. Agron spoke truth.

“I overcompensate for perceived error,” I confessed. “Apologies.”

“No blood shed!” And with those words, Duro was pleased to dismiss the entire encounter from memory. He stood and tapped my shoulder in farewell. “I assist Aurelia and the little ones until the time comes.”

I turned toward Agron as my lover pushed himself nearer, tucking his larger form into my embrace. Puzzled, I wrapped arms around his shoulders. Perhaps no blood had been shed this day, but he sought comfort for some injury whose origin I did not know.

“Agron,” I murmured into his ear. “Speak your troubles and find burdens halved.”

“Troubles?” he mused, voice unsteady. “You count yourself among them on occasion.”

Before I could offer more apologies, he straightened and cupped my jaw in his hands. “So fierce.”

My eyes stung at the praise, pride, and acceptance of my nature. Shifting closer, I vowed, “I fight at your side.”

He kissed me. The hard, hungry press of lips softening as I angled my jaw and fingers curled upon his nape, urging him nearer. He loved me gently: brief nips of teeth, caress from tongue, sweeping touch of lip, puff of breath. He had no words beyond the offerings he made to my mouth, not even those spoken east of the Rhine. I held on, even when my hold inevitably loosened from his form, I held him near. This man was my heart. My brothers were my purpose. The coming battle our charge.

Gannicus rode past us on a dappled pony. I could hear him calling out to Spartacus’ followers, urging them to keep pace swift and weapons at hand.

Northbound rebel forces were required to take rest, concealed in the shade of the forest as the caravan continued onward under the stern direction of Oenomaus and playful encouragement of Gannicus. We rose to the fading glow of the sun’s cloud-filtered light, ate, and set foot to path. Even with hours’ head start, the caravan was quickly overtaken.

Fuck. We were worse than a stationary target -- at least at Metapontum, we’d had walls to draw behind and defend. Out here in the open, funneled by land and paved road, movements utterly predictable, we were a mangy, tired beast, blindly groping its way.

There was nothing I would not do to shelter these people. No advantage I would not claim. Agron had spoken truth at Reginus’ villa: we did not fight in the arena.

Fuck the Romans.

Despite weariness of body following hard travel, my resolution hardened with each step. Enemy patrols fell to our blades in relative silence. Agron and Duro witnessed the technique that had seen three of Marius’ guards to the afterlife: sword-through-back and knife-across-throat. The Roman I killed perished in blood-gushing quiet.

Duro bumped my elbow in passing and Agron placed a kiss upon my temple. I shadowed their quick pace. Should the absence of scouts be noticed before we launched attack, the Romans might manage to organize an offense.

At the next rise, Spartacus gave the signal for us to slow and take pause. As our numbers indulged in brief and silent rest, Agron, Duro, and I approached our commander’s position upon the crest. Through the trees, the light of lit braziers flickered, reflecting upon pale tent fabric: the Roman encampment.

Naevia crouched beside me, Crixus at her other side. Rabanus, Leviticus, and Ortius gathered near. We waited in silence for report on camp layout. It was delivered by a familiar face: the Greek Pleuratos.

“Main armory to the northwest,” he told. “Horses tethered to the north. The infantry lies abed. Perhaps a hundred men tend the fires.”

“Report of victory at Garganus makes them overconfident,” Spartacus noted. Turning to Crixus, he gave assignment: “Secure the armory. Pleuratos, guide them in.” To Rabanus, he ordered the horses kept separate from Romans capable of mounting them. Leviticus would surround the provisions and battle outward. Ortius was given the right flank. Agron, Duro, and I would take the left.

Spartacus stood at the forefront as we poured through Roman camp in the hush before dawn. We moved silently, stabbing chest and slicing throats, until a shout of alarm -- a rebel had been sighted. Someone. Somewhere. It mattered not. The sun was rising and the time for stealth past.

I kicked a brazier over, setting alight the nearest tent and turned to meet the blades of half-dressed infantrymen.

The blare of a horn. Fabric flapping as men stumbled from their beds and into the path of our swords. Agron, Duro, and I claimed a space that had been cleared for a large meal fire and, spinning right and left, met the enemy that converged upon us. Ortius and Adal and many others, catching sight of our arrangement, adopted similar stance: in battle, no rebel stood alone.

Absent familiar field and clear command, the Romans were formless and lost. Many simply ran westward. Had the archers not been needful back at the caravan, those panicking shits would have easily been picked off one by one.

I ducked at the sound of Agron’s roar. A spray of blood and a Roman head bouncing at my feet. I kicked it toward oncoming opponent. His attention snagged upon the sight of fallen comrade and I slipped under his guard, skewered lung. A blade thrust into his throat: Duro finishing the man in swift fashion. Bodies crumpled in heaps upon the ground -- we three shifted position to clear footing.

Another wave of Romans. I felled a man rushing Agron’s back. Duro’s sword took an enemy closing in on my flank. Agron separated another man’s head from neck. I slashed hamstrings and upper arms, stabbed ribs and groin. Duro smashed his forehead against too close opponent, shoving him into the path of another, tangling them as he dealt death to a third. My Germans and I shifted, swift and bristling and deadly.

Cerberus. We fought as the three-headed dog of Tartarus, snapping jaws and swiping claws.

And then--

A roar from the west. Wild battle cries swarming toward us. The relentless clang of steel.

Allies? Gordianus had arrived as promised?

“Pace!” Agron shouted. “Break not from formation!”

“Fucking--you think I would rush--” Duro panted, pausing to punch a fully armed opponent in the face as I sent blade beneath the man’s arm to stab between ribs, a mirror of my own injury but far deeper. “--to embrace Gauls?”

“Are pups not known for their welcoming nature?” I breathlessly teased.

Agron barked a laugh, spinning his own mortally wounded opponent around to act as shield against the next Roman.

“Fuck you both!” Duro panted.

Agron drew the Roman in and I crouched to deliver thrust to groin. The man was finished with another slash from Agron’s sword.

Sweat and blood made grip upon pommel precarious. Lack of water dried throat until words were no longer possible. Endless effort pushed already tired muscles toward quaking exhaustion. Cries. Shouts. Splitting flesh and spilling blood and war and I recalled my words to Agron months ago: _****“I am ruined for any purpose aside from battle and you.”****_

“Ha!” I shouted, ending the man that Agron had tumbled into my path. Roman hands scrambled to clamp shut the wound in neck; blood spurted through fingers and pale eyes turned skyward, mouth gaping as he struggled for breath, for a moment more life.

War. It was a skill like any other.

Hoof beats -- a horse cantering in the distance and drawing closer. I glanced up -- a Roman astride and bearing down upon--

“Spartacus!” Agron bellowed.

The Thracian turned just as Lugo leaped from Harudes’ flank and knocked Spartacus aside--

Blade descended, met flesh and tore open skin. A mad roar of fury from--

“Harudes!” Duro raged, breaking from formation.

“Fuck!” Agron spat as I hissed in frustration, falling back to guard our young brother.

I glimpsed Lugo’s hammer connect with the leg of Roman rider. Spartacus grabbed the horse’s reins and swung the animal’s head around. Red cloak and gleaming armor blurred in the morning light as the man fell. Lugo’s hammer-to-helmet -- a misty spray of blood. Duro crashed to his knees beside our fallen brother: Harudes. I caught snatches of German as Duro clasped the man’s hand.

Agron nudged me to face my next opponent and I engaged the man with intent to protect Duro. In the midst of battle how utterly foolish--

“Nothing can be done for him!” I informed Agron when I was given a moment absent threat.

“But he does not depart this world alone,” my lover answered.

“Nasir!”

I ducked, pivoting toward frantic call -- “Castus!”

“Duro--where is Duro--is he…?”

I barred the Numidian’s path before he tripped over the very man he sought. “Hale. Duro suffers no wound.” Not of flesh, anyway.

Castus’ gaze followed my gesture and took in the sight of Duro easing Harudes’ unseeing eyes closed.

Fuck. A brother lost.

Stinging heart and pounding rage drove me to knit my attacks with Agron’s. Castus joined Duro, purpose renewed. Spartacus cantered between the blood-splattered and burning tents atop stolen mount, striking down unwary Romans and rallying tired rebels to fight… and finally to win.

Victory was ours.

I climbed over the sprawled body of a Roman to reach Agron, wrap a hand around his nape and draw him near for a moment. Our foreheads touched as rousing cries pushed against the clear blue sky overhead. I filled my lungs with Agron, with sweat and blood and metal and leather.

We broke apart and Agron turned his ferocious grin toward Duro, pulling him into our embrace. We had each taken shallow slashes. Duro’s arm bled from recent wound, but we were all three of us already healing. Torn flesh closing with forming scabs that we would soon wear as scars.

“Fuck the gods,” Duro exclaimed, thumping a fist against each of our shoulders. “I rather enjoyed myself.”

Agron laughed, patting his cheek. “How fortunate that a second force approaches from the south.”

“To the horses, then!” Duro enthused, glowing with excitement.

Castus chuckled.

Movement in the distance beyond the Numidian’s shoulder -- leather cap and patchwork armor and the dark gaze of a Syrian--

“Syrian Nasir!”

I spun around and grinned. “Gordianus of Gallia!”

The Gaul was indeed alive. I offered my arm and found myself pulled close in a joyous -- if aromatic -- embrace.

“My little brother from Capua’s arena!” the man proudly shouted, introducing me to one and all. He thumped my back hard and all I could do was laugh. I laughed at my fears, at Numerius’ empty threats, at whatever gods had lent far too little aid to their Roman shits.

I laughed with Gordianus and, out of the corner of my eye, glimpsed Duro and Castus offering arm in friendship to these approaching strangers.

No, no longer strangers. Among the ruin of this Roman army, we stood as brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m keeping in mind both Appain’s and Plutarch’s (at times conflicting) accounts of Spartacus’ War (a.k.a. the Third Serville War) for the events which take place currently in the story (i.e. 72 BC). The battle at Garganus was recorded as consisting of 30,000 rebels led by Crixus against a Roman legion (led by Lucius Gellius Publicola). In the TV show, the battle at Garganus happens at the end of 3x08 and Crixus, Naevia, and Agron face Crassus and Caesar in a total divergence from recorded history.
> 
> Also, I’m borrowing some information from Tacitus’ works on Germania. His writings inspired me to decide that Nemetes was not actually from “east of the Rhine” -- he comes from a branch of a tribe that split off to ally itself with Rome pretty early on. Either, in the confusion of battle, Nemetes gets captured by mistake and sold alongside men he would have been fighting (and thus works really hard to be best buds with Sedullus) or Nemetes had a falling out with his own people (or their Roman benefactors) and switched sides. ANYWAY! This doesn’t come up earlier in the story because, frankly, Agron and Duro have already figured out what kind of man Nemetes is and he’ll either hang himself or pull his shit together and fight. Turns out he goes for Option 1 rather, um, spectacularly.
> 
> It appears that there was an actual Germanic tribe called the Nemetes (so this might be where the man’s name comes from) and apparently they were pretty close to Roman settlements (and presumably traded with Romans). I thought it might be fun if “Nemetes” isn’t actually the guy’s name (anymore than “Spartacus” is our beloved and frustrating Thracian’s real name) but what if he’s called “Nemetes” because that’s where he’s from. Kinda like, “Hey, London! Wuzzup, man?” if you were talking to the one Londoner in the group? But I decided this would probably be pretty confusing for Nasir right now (given his very limited understanding of Germania’s peoples) and he’s got Roman army things to think about in this chapter. So.
> 
> PLUS!! There were also Saxons (Saxa?), Lugii (Lugo?), and Charudes (Harudes?) um, FYI.
> 
> Yeah, there is something going on between Agron and Duro that they aren’t telling Nasir. (Because they totally SHOULD HAVE been all like, “No fucking way are we doing this ‘separate paths’ thing again! If you’re going to talk to some Gaul dude, then we’re going with you.”) Agron and Duro have got their own reasons for letting Nasir talk them into hanging back while Nasir goes out to meet the messenger from Gallia. (But given the tensions between Gauls and Germans, yeah, it really is best for them to stay behind. If Nasir shows up with “the enemy” then a potentially friendly encounter could spiral into Big Trouble real fast. Nasir lets Rhaskos come with him because Rhaskos is a Gaul -- and can speak the language to prove it -- AND Rhaskos is not as necessary for their cause as Crixus is. Hard truth there.) STILL. There is ANOTHER reason. Neither Duro nor Argon like it, and Nasir doesn’t even know about it. YET.


	4. Friends Lost and Gained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (battle, injuries, & medicinal treatment), DEATH, sexytimes

Smoke.

Turning the bend upon road, we we laid eyes on billowing clouds. In the next instant, the stench of burning pitch was pulled into lungs.

The measured pace set to conserve the strength of our mounts -- horses pulled from the Roman camp and now carrying rebels -- was readily abandoned. Agron grunted, but made no complaint. Duro’s grin of anticipation faded as worry scrunched his brow and locked jaw tight.

Aurelia and her children. Donar and Chadara. Our friends and allies and little monsters…

Gordianus kept pace, asking no questions, simply readying sword. His men accompanied, half of our cavalry counted from new friends of Gallia. The remainder of both armies lingered at decimated Roman camp to salvage food, supplies, and arms. And also to build funeral pyres for the fallen. Considering the destruction toward which we raced, I prayed not many more would be needful.

The shapes of wagons and flicker of flames rose up from distant road. We approached at speed that allowed little time to take in more than laden carts, battling forms, and glint of steel. Duro kicked his steed hard, spurring the animal to surge past small skirmishes toward--

“Aurelia!” he bellowed over clamor of crashing metal, shrieks of shock, and roar of flames.

It was the arena of Capua revisited. The chaos and confusion. I suddenly understood Duro’s old habit of surrendering to more confident opponent; this was not our battle and if not for my Syrians who may be caught somewhere in this senseless tide of violence, I would have permitted myself hesitation.

“Aurelia!” Duro called yet again, voice cracking with strain.

We were nearing the front lines, the main clash between our forces and Rome’s. Agron steered his mount to knock Roman soldiers away from tiring rebels, but did not linger to spear the men. That charge fell to whichever freed man or woman stood nearest with blade in grasp. I, on the other hand, readily employed spear to swat the enemy upon armored head, ringing each skull as a bell tolls. Discombobulating, damning them to distraction, one that was hopefully fatal.

The whistle of arrows -- archers firing from the forested slopes -- screamed overhead toward Roman catapults and burning balls of pitch-soaked windfall. Black smoke rose from unlaunched artillery rather than the wagons of hobbled men and women. Thank the gods.

_****“Aurelia!”** ** _

I shifted weight, sending mount toward Duro’s scream and the sight before my eyes--

Donar pressing right arm to chest, blood spurting from deep wound upon forearm as he awkwardly defended with ax in left--

Sibyl stumbling back under assault from Roman gladius, her shield dropping as strength waned--

Aurelia leaping upon the back of Sibyl’s assailant, dagger flashing as she stabbed the man in neck again and again and--

A cry of pain. Donar’s opponent stumbling away, abandoning killing blow as he staggered upon bloody, mutilated feet. Toes missing and heels slashed. Chadara’s pale arms retreated beneath cart as Donar finished the man with one blow from ax.

“See to the wound!” I shouted at Donar as our horses careened past and the three of us pushed back against infantrymen.

Our cavalry smashed through the surging waves of foot soldiers, Spartacus leading the way, Romans falling in his wake on both right and left.

We pushed, trampled, fought. Killed.

Duro, Agron, and I speared through the ranks as Gannicus and Oenomaus fought side by side, guarding each other’s flank, trading opponents, sending one Roman after another to the Ferryman.

When my horse stumbled from wounds and blood loss, I vaulted free and fought upon my feet, ankles splashed with blood and bits of flesh. Agron surrendered his mount to Donar who, with forearm now tightly wrapped in makeshift bandage, gleefully slammed across the battlefield, toppling armored men with a whoop and clatter, clearing room for me and my lover to work.

Duro, however, did not join us. Rather, I glimpsed him at back as though standing guard over the wagon where Aurelia and Sibyl made their stand, Chadara and the children concealed beneath cart. Duro enthusiastically speared the Romans who slipped past while Agron’s blade was engaged and my weapon weighted with lifeless flesh.

And when at last the way was clear toward the praetor who commanded this withering army, Spartacus cantered forward with an echoing battle cry. Gannicus, Oenomaus, Lugo, Crixus, Naevia--

My Germans and I hastened to join their assault upon the praetorian guard. Shields tumbled beneath the pawing hooves of Spartacus’ mount. Crixus leaped and dived feet-first into the wall of steel. I stabbed spear into the chink between shields, twisted, planted barb, vaulted--

A cry of pain--the point of spear anchoring in living flesh--and I was up and over the Roman defense an instant before Agron smashed through and Duro spun past, sword’s edge spraying blood spatter in gruesome arc.

Panting breaths. Mine, Agron’s, Duro’s. We fought. We killed. We terrified the fucking Roman praetor back the way he’d come. He and his tribunes thundered a retreat upon horseback. Scurrying for safety.

Spartacus kicked his horse and made to pursue, but the animal only managed three strides before it tripped and crashed to its knees. Sides heaving, lathered in sweat and blood. Foam dripping from the exhausted creature’s mouth. Blood shimmering wetly from wounds upon its dark hide. The animal would not fight again.

But we would.

Agron’s fingers dipped into my tangled hair and I pivoted toward his smile. Brows pressed together, he huffed, “Fuck the gods.”

“The rebellion yet lives,” I agreed.

Duro’s laughter, weary but full of heart, pulled us to his side. “I am done,” he informed us, slapping our shoulders, “for one day.”

Agron mussed his brother’s hair and I poked his side. He squirmed under our teasing, but refused to yield. Bull-headed and blood-soaked but more bursting with pride than ever.

We allowed ourselves a moment, and then moved toward the caravans, offering an arm to the men and women who had tumbled in battle and required assistance in regaining feet. Duro embraced Aurelia, exchanging brief words before he and Agron set intent to herding their German warriors. Adal reported that my Syrians had fought well, suffering minor injuries. Simon’s call, summoning his fellow healers, pulled me toward my next duty: there were many wounds to clean and stitch.

I tended to Donar’s.

“A fucking waste of wine,” the man groused as I cleaned the gash upon his arm. It was deep. Down to the bone. His face was pale and eyes too dark; he had lost much blood despite tightly bound field dressing.

Oenomaus approached, watching over my shoulder while I worked. A gore-painted Gannicus curled up beside Sibyl, carefully examining her blood-splattered limbs. He covered the largest cut with his hand, pinching the flesh shut, and pressed a kiss to her cheek before murmuring words too low for me to discern even at this short distance. She hummed tiredly, leaning into the show of affection.

“Move fingers,” Oenomaus commanded Donar. Only his thumb and little finger twitched. Fuck. If he survived oncoming fever and should his flesh close absent spoilage, he would not likely wield any weapon, tool, or implement skillfully with right hand again.

“Fuck,” he spat, clearly reaching similar conclusion.

Oenomaus tapped the German on the shoulder. “Live to make them regret it.”

“I fucking shall.”

The Numidian paused to extend a hand to Gannicus, who clasped it with wholehearted joy. Then, with a friendly nod and smile to Sibyl, our former doctore continued onward, conducting survey of men bearing the mark of the Brotherhood. Though the ludus was no longer, the weight of duty lingered. I too felt it; my entire being itched to see to Tilius and the others I’d served beside. It was all I could do not to sprint through the ever-plodding caravan and account for each and every one of my little Syrians.

But first the wounded: the men and women who had protected Varro’s widow and her children against well-trained and fully armed Roman soldiers. I would see to them first and thereby ease the ache of Duro’s heart.

Chadara moved to crouch beside Donar. He twitched away from the damp cloth in her grasp, but she gripped his shoulder hard and scolded: “I would embrace my man _****alone****_ and not the bits of others that yet cling to his skin!”

Amazingly, he stilled and submitted.

I stitched. Applied poultice. Wrapped his arm and instructed Chadara to fashion a sling once the grumbling German’s bathing was done.

Turning to Sibyl, I gestured for her to reveal wounds.

Gannicus released her into my care but hovered near, wincing in sympathy whenever she flinched against the sting of wine and needle’s bite. Thankfully, her movements were not impaired by injury as Donar’s were. “I now carry battle scars,” she murmured, offering a dreamy smile despite the pain.

“Welcome to freedom, sister,” I replied and prayed she healed fast.

I insisted on examining Janus, Nadua, and Aurelia. Janus had skinned his knees scrambling to get beneath the cart and Aurelia had already washed the grit and gravel from his abraded skin. She herself had a welt upon skull from pommel blow, scratches upon her arms from the sharp edge of armor, and a broken toe. I bound the latter and then she pushed me away.

“See to Duro,” she said and I obeyed command.

I found him huddled among many smaller forms. My little monsters. All of them -- and I counted three times just to be certain -- had gathered around and now huddled close despite the sticky blood and scent of death upon Duro’s unwashed skin. Agron gestured me close and I realized quickly what had happened.

Emesa sniffled as she stroked the limp hand in her grasp. Silent tears streaked down Cholle’s small face. The slender form braced partly upright, head and shoulders nestled in Duro’s lap, took one slow, rattling breath… and then another. Eyes once warm with hesitantly kindled hope were now glassy with encroaching chill. Glima, the collared slave girl that Duro had liberated from unscrupulous whoremonger on the streets of Picentia. I knelt but made no attempt to inspect the wound in belly. Blood had saturated her dress and speckled her lips. When she coughed weakly, dark red droplets sprinkled her chin.

Duro petted her hair. I crouched beside Cholle, arms ready should she require an embrace. Agron mirrored me beside Emesa.

Oruros began to sing. I did not know the song, but it felt familiar. I was drawn into distant memory: shadowy silence and the scent of myrrh, a woman’s voice and night breeze. Flapping tent fabric, tunics and kind eyes and a shifting form beside me. My brother snuggling closer as our mother sang us a lullaby.

Glima’s breath hitched wetly and then stopped. Her chest stilled and eyes dulled. Cholle reached forward and gently eased eyelids shut. She drew air into her lungs once, twice, then clapped both hands upon her head and twisted. Her forehead slammed into the center of my chest and she wailed. She wailed and rocked and I moved with her, holding her tight.

I knew no utterance in the tongue spoken in Syria which would ease her pain. Nor would I taint this moment with Roman words.

“Cholle,” I said, rubbing her back and inviting her to weep. “Cholle. Cholle. Cholle.”

Adal brought a horse and Duro gently lifted Glima’s body into the saddle, tying her in place. Cholle and Emesa insisted on taking a rein each and the children continued the trek north.

I reached past Agron and pulled Duro close. We clutched each other tight as we mourned. Agron stood guard, hands upon both my back and his brother’s, providing us with a sheltered moment.

And then we carried on.

“I must see to Janus and Nadua,” Duro mumbled and Agron sent him toward Aurelia with a light shove.

Agron and I marched in weary silence. Saxa and Castus joined our quiet venture. My mind buzzed with unformed thoughts, making me dizzy with weariness.

I was too tired to startle at sudden nudge upon my arm: Tilius. I was horrified by the blood-soaked wrapping he pressed to side of head. “What has become of you?” I demanded.

Though his face was too pale, he laughed. Vitus volunteered from his other side, “Too slow to dodge and has paid the cost.”

“It is only an ear,” my old friend teased. “I am not for Pluto’s gates today!”

I sputtered at the resurrection of his old jest and offered him what yet remained in my water skin.

We arrived at the ruins of Roman encampment after midnight. The warriors who, due to insufficient number of horses, had been denied opportunity for further battle, had discharged their duties well: the tents that had survived the assault stood ready for weary occupants and salvaged scraps of cloth fashioned into packs for carrying supplies upon back; food was laid out; campfires crackled; and pyres stood ready for their passengers, each wooden platform large enough to share between brothers and sisters.

Fulco was laid beside Mannus. Duro refused to place Glima beside Harudes’ body -- “The stupid fuck would expect her to dance and sing,” my young brother explained -- and found a place for her beside a former whore from Neapolis who had been under Mira’s charge as an archer. So many dead. Familiar faces and names I had called during training or in greeting or preceding friendly jest.

Suddenly, I thought of my brother. Had he died in this manner? Laid to rest by friendly hands?

I sought Agron and we stood with our brothers to bid farewell to friends. Cholle and Emesa snuck through the throng of filthy warriors to wrap their spindly arms around us and we kept them near, away from the thoughtless sweep of swinging elbows and feet made clumsy with lack of sleep. Pressing close, they wept for their lost friend until Demetrias and Oruros came to collect them. As they saw one another to food and safety and place of rest, my heart ached. My little monsters had learned well to look after one another.

Cups were lifted, though they held posca instead of wine. Water had been brought from the nearest source for bathing. We washed bodies, rinsed hair, scrubbed knuckles and nails, and wiped down weapons.

Agron claimed a tent for us. Though the privacy was welcome, I had no inclination to pursue anything other than slumber. Setting weapons aside, we curled up together and, when Gannicus and Sibyl tumbled in and fell into the cot opposite, Agron merely grunted a greeting, already half asleep.

I woke to the sound of footsteps passing by wall of fabric. My body ached and I longed for either movement or oblivion, but paused to study Agron in slumber. Sensations burst within chest, battering heart. This man and his habit of giving all to those he held dear. Perhaps one day I would learn which god had directed our paths to cross and, to that deity, I would offer sincere gratitude.

Agron’s lashes fluttered and he shifted. Smiling, I pressed my lips to his scruffy chin, my beard catching roughly against his. It had been days since either of us had spared the time to shave with oil and sharpened blade. From the soft moan of welcome, Agron did not seem to mind. He nosed against my cheek, slid warm lips against my grin, and hitched his hips closer.

My breath stuttered as his hard length brushed against mine through our modest wrappings. He rocked into me, eyes opening lazily as fingertips trailed down my spine. Perhaps Gannicus and Sibyl yet slept across the way, perhaps not. I saw nothing beyond Agron.

He held me steady upon narrow cot as I loosened our subligaria, then pulled me close. Flesh upon flesh. We embraced in near silence, cocooned in warmth and touch and skin. The aches of battle ceded to reassurance and affirmation. Agron curled up, sliding arm beneath my cheek and tucking his face against my neck to kiss and nuzzle and exhale. My hand, now as callused as his, tended gently to our arousals: careful passes meant to spread slick musk and generate brief heat as we slid against each other, rubbing absent oil to ease the way.

Not unlike our march northward. Every step closer to freedom -- slow and painstaking -- genuine effort toward hopeful reward.

Agron nudged my knee up and over his thigh, spreading me open and petting that sensitive crevasse at base of spine. Curling arm around his shoulder, my fingers clenched in his hair and suddenly we were racing towards release, relief in sight, a journey’s end upon us and within us. Reaching into each other--

Waves of heat--

I panted against Agron’s ear and he sucked a mark onto my neck and--

Mindless warmth and tingling enjoyment. I basked in the darkness behind closed eyelids, holding my lover against me, finding and offering shelter. This man was my home. No matter what lay ahead, I would not be forced from his side.

I realized I was smiling when Agron’s fingertip traced the curve of my lips.

I opened eyes and spoke in German: “At your side I stand. Always.”

He blinked, face slackening with shock a moment before the corners of his mouth tightened into a telltale frown, brows tilting with feeling. Even after all this time, my regard overwhelmed him.

“Would that I could always have you there,” he murmured.

Ignoring his stale breath, I quirked chin in question of his meaning. “You doubt my oath?”

“No,” he replied, still uttering German. “But… east of the Rhine… many things are different.”

“It changes nothing.”

He disagreed in silence, sighing with defeat. I coaxed him to speak, combing fingers through his hair as though I could gather up his worries with mere touch.

“Agron,” I scolded on a whisper. “Speak concerns to the one who holds your heart.”

A puff of wry laughter pushed past his lips and he pressed a long, desperate kiss to my mouth. “You hold my heart,” he agreed. “And my cock.”

I laughed helplessly at that truth. Our mutual release yet coated my hand.

Agron stretched, collecting the cut of cloth we had used to wash with the night before. It was still a little damp, but served to clear away the slick and stickiness.

“You evade inquiry,” I noted, arching a brow at him in reprimand.

He looked away, jaw muscles bunching. With hand upon his arm, I drew him back to me. Heart pounding and mouth suddenly dry, I demanded, “Will I stand a free man east of the Rhine?”

Agron sat up upon elbow, cupping my cheek. “Yes, I give you my oath. You will never be forced to serve another’s will again.”

Grinning, I giddily concluded, “Then I remain with you and Duro.”

He accepted my kiss but held his breath, shoulders far too tense.

“Open hands and release fear,” I spoke and he chuckled softly at the reminder, though it was given in common tongue, breaking the continuing tide -- soft give and take -- of German words. “It cannot hold you.”

Agron teased: “As you hold me?”

And I gave solemn reply: “Yes. For as long as you wish it.”

Again, that moue of heartache. Agron pressed brow against mine in silence. Breathed deeply. And then rolled abruptly out of bed and to his feet to dress. If he glimpsed the soft smile twitching upon Sibyl’s lips, he gave no indication. She continued to feign slumber, curled up beside Gannicus’ sprawled form -- his mouth gaping like that of a dead fish -- until we exited tent and stepped into a cool, misty rain.

Once more, we inquired after the welfare of our charges, Germans and Syrians alike, before rousing Duro and making report to Spartacus.

“We shall rest here today and tomorrow, affirming bonds with new friends,” the Thracian decided. “Nasir, you fought this man in the arena of Capua?”

I had. I told those gathered of our negotiations upon the sands and the accord reached beneath the oblivious gazes of thousands of Romans.

Acer gawped.

Crixus’ brows twitched, either in admiration or irritation. I could not be sure which. Given that Naevia reached out to curl a hand softly around his arm, it would be prudent to assume the latter.

“And underhanded strategy,” I allowed, believing this would lessen my worth in the Gaul’s eyes.

Duro slung an arm over my aching shoulders and Gannicus thumped the back of fist against my chest on a chuckle.

“Well played, you slick fuck,” the Celt opined.

Leviticus nodded. The Veteran and Lydon smirked.

Neither Oenomaus nor Litaviccus gave any indication of their thoughts.

I added: “The funeral games. The fates of Solonius’ men…” Taking brief pause, I gave confession. “Solonius stood wrongfully condemned for the death of Calavius. Both men victims of Batiatus’ schemes.”

“How know you this?” Crixus demanded and I looked to him when I gave reply.

“I obeyed command and assisted with Calavius’ capture.”

Into the shocked silence, Spartacus said, “You could have refused.”

“Not without risking more lives than my own.” That did not lessen the burden. I had not felt so soiled even when drenched in the gore of battle.

Duro crouched low and drew my gaze. “Beast or brother,” he reminded me with a genuine smile.

“I stand as both.”

“So do we all,” Agron contributed in a tone that allowed for no argument.

Crixus sighed. “We do what we must.”

“We continue north at dawn on the third day,” Spartacus told, concluding our meeting.

Agron and Duro nudged me toward an open space and I allowed myself to release regret and take comfort in the familiar flow of training drills. We sparred a bit until Janus caused interruption and Duro departed to play with him. Agron kissed me in reward for my efforts.

“See to your people,” I ordered with a smile.

“You go to yours?”

“I tend to charge.” Glancing over shoulder toward the area of camp claimed by Gordianus’ men, I sighed. “Two days to forge brotherly bonds.”

“I accompany.”

Stubborn determination. Perhaps that was the meaning of Agron’s name east of the Rhine. It would suit him well. “Later,” I vowed and he unhappily relented.

With another kiss, we parted ways. Less than a dozen paces found me in the midst of unfamiliar faces. Free men from Gallia. In response to the man who moved to block my path, I met his neutral stare and spoke: “I am called Nasir. I would break words with Gordianus.”

With a grunt, the man gestured me toward the campfire where the former gladiator was taking meal. I accepted his warm greeting as well as a bowl of gruel, sitting beside him as invited.

I asked him to recount his journey home and then I confessed to being told of a plot to cut his venture short. Gordianus clapped me on the back.

“Fucking idiot Romans,” he remarked. “They are no match for us.”

“In any number,” I gamely agreed and the man’s boisterous expulsion of mirth echoed up to the cloudy sky, blasting through whatever lingering hesitance yet clung to his men’s thoughts.

But then he quieted and murmured, “Germans, eh?”

Ah. Either I had been seen with Agron and Duro or rumors of our kinship had reached the newcomers. Perhaps that stood as the reason for the tension I sensed. These Gauls awaited explanation and, should it be displeasing, Gordianus would be forced to abandon association with me. This was the reason I had refused Agron attendance at this meeting.

“And good men,” I insisted.

Gordianus grunted.

I told of how I had come to enter Batiatus’ ludus and the brothers I had found there. Men of numerous lands who I now willingly fought alongside. “Romans alone stand as recipients of my ire,” I concluded. “Should your men hold similar grudge, I believe Rome’s soldiers stand in sufficient quantities -- I would share.”

The older Gaul threw back his head and laughed. Several eavesdroppers joined in.

I smiled. “Come,” I spoke, standing, “and I will make introductions.”

“To your Germans?” the man gruffed with barely restrained reservation.

Shaking my head, I assured him: “To Spartacus and Crixus. Let us widen your circle of friends.”

He beamed a gap-toothed smile, wholeheartedly agreeable to my suggestion. The arena-and-battle-battered Gaul clasped Spartacus’ arm enthusiastically and greeted Mira with respect. He quickly traded friendly japes with Gannicus and, to Oenomaus, spoke praise of the Numidian’s legend upon the sands. Surprisingly, Gordianus’ manner appeared far more distant toward Crixus and Rhaskos.

As our days of rest passed and the two Gallic armies yet hesitated to mingle, I approached Naevia to inquire, “Have you a notion as to what stands between men who hail from singular homeland?”

She shrugged, continuing to clean her teeth with the gnawed end of a green twig. “Pride.”

“Pride? The very thing which unites Germans despite generations of disagreement between tribes pushes Gauls to oppose each other?”

Naevia’s lips twitched and she gazed across slowly shifting and gradually marching caravan. Crixus spoke with Agron and Rhaskos, his back turned away from where Gordianus stood in conference with Spartacus, Pollux, and Ortius.

“Neither man yields command to the other, and their men follow their lead.” Naevia spoke the words so lightly, as if explaining the simple whims of children.

Scowling, I pressed, “Crixus stood a champion of the arena and jointly holds victories in battle against Rome. Does this not lift his rank above Gordianus?”

“The men who follow Gordianus have never fought within arena or suffered Roman collar. They hold memories of home, memories that Gordianus shares.”

“And Crixus does not?”

Naevia tossed used twig into the brush. “He was collared when yet a boy. Manhood among the Gauls is attained through rite of passage.”

I concluded: “Gordianus will not make exception and neither will Crixus ask it of him.”

“Pride,” Naevia agreed.

Well, so be it. Gordianus was openly amicable with Spartacus, Oenomaus, and Gannicus, not a wholly unfavorable circumstance. So long as Crixus made no attempt to usurp Spartacus and command the rebellion himself, our ranks stood as one army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man. Agron is SO CLOSE to cluing Nasir in to Very Important things. Backstory things. Things that you will learn soon. Oh yes, you will. (^_~)


	5. Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (violence), DEATH

Rest.

After more than two weeks of hard travel, wagon wheels and feet taking pause only for the most miserable of downpours, Spartacus ordered camp built and declared three days for rest.

Well, rest and opportunity for the men and women who would slip collar from neck and embark upon perilous journey to join our numbers, which swelled hourly it seemed. Most arrived due to their own ingenuity and effort, but many were drawn from villas taken and raided by rebels along our route. Though some refused us aid and barricaded themselves with dominus and domina within inner sanctum of villa, many greeted our arrival with smiles, shoving those who had either threatened or doled out mistreatment into the path of our blades.

Just the night before, Duro had cheerfully added four Roman guards to his reckoning of dead. I had been surprised that my young brother had urged us to join him in venturing out for supplies; until two days ago, he’d taken to spending his nights within Aurelia’s tent.

“They still do not fuck,” Donar had reported with exasperation.

Chadara had smacked the man upon chest. “Neither do you at present.”

“I am healed, woman!”

“You are too stupid to realize you are yet wounded.”

“Fuck the gods--”

“Perhaps I shall!”

“Ha! Not even Jupiter could satisfy you.” Donar had leered. “Not so well as I can.”

“Ugh.” She’d rolled her eyes and turned toward me. “Nasir, I beg of you. Do something with this German and allow me a day’s peace.”

I’d sent him out on patrols with Leviticus and Tilius. That night, once duty was done and report given, the noise from Donar and Chadara’s tent had echoed along the hills. They may have even been heard in Rome.

Agron had proposed a contest to out-stripe them. To his sparkling eyes and bouncing eyebrows, I’d sputtered a laugh. “We have not bathed properly in weeks.”

“Yesterday’s rain--”

“Does not fucking count.”

But well-maintained bath at last night Roman villa most assuredly had.

By the gods, I would rest well tonight. I certainly had not gained much slumber the night before beneath Roman roof and upon soft bed. Agron had coaxed forth one demand after another from me until we’d exhausted one another completely.

“I know that smile.”

“Aurelia,” I greeted, feeling my face heat. “Evening meal was particularly good, yes?”

She giggled. “Hm. Poor Agron. No crumb of him remains?”

“Eh,” I awkwardly agreed. “We both stand satisfied.”

She graciously made no mention of the fortunate fact that both of us could stand at all. Instead, she directed attention toward the raucous gathering in camp’s center. An open space had been left absent meal fires into order to permit games. Agron and Duro had each been paired with a Gaul from Gordianus’ forces. It was not so much a wrestling match as a competition between brothers to outshine each other with showy maneuvers and much posturing following each tumble taken by Gallic opponent. It was only a matter of time before the Gauls disregarded the dividing line between teams, banded together, and launched assault on my ridiculous Germans.

“Gratitude,” Aurelia said, tone much more somber than previously, “for returning Duro to camp absent additional wound.”

“He acts the boy, but he is a capable warrior.” And then, through my distraction, I comprehended Aurelia’s meaning. “What previous wound do you speak of?”

“In truth, I am unsure.” She frowned as Duro crowed in Agron’s face only to be tackled by his brother’s flagging opponent. Ah, yes. The tide now turned.

Aurelia continued, “He seemed pleased to take rest with us, but…”

“No longer?”

She shook her head, baffled. “He no longer meets my gaze.”

I drew breath to inquire if she had attempted to break words with him on the matter, but she undoubtedly had. This moment -- her approach to me -- was likely a last resort. “I will send him your way. With Agron’s aid if necessary.”

A roar from the crowd as Agron lifted opponent off of feet and over one shoulder. He then grinned broadly at Duro who had a Gaul in unbreakable lock. Duro dropped his arms from around the man and charged his older brother, opponents forgotten in favor of facing each other.

With a pat to Aurelia’s shoulder, I sought Gannicus and with a nod toward the brawling Germans, pulled a wide grin from the man. Sibyl shoved him toward the ruckus and it was her laughter I heard first and foremost when we pounced.

An easy victory over two exhausted idiots, but Gannicus and I lifted arms in celebration nonetheless. We did not expect assault from Castus and Gordianus, however, and were forced to regroup under this new threat to our pride.

Spartacus approved the matches with a happy grin, Mira’s arm around his waist. Oenomaus shook his head tolerantly at Gannicus’ antics and showmanship.

Castus lost to the Celt and I was done the moment Gordianus locked his longer arms around me and pinned me beneath his heavier weight. Ah, fuck. It was all in good fun, though, and the cheers were welcome.

How odd that there was at least one thing I could recall with fondness from the arena.

Agron met me with a water skin and Duro congratulated me with a jest, arms akimbo: “Gordianus stands fortunate he returned you absent damage.”

I smacked my young brother’s arm. “You hesitate to fight now? Has my brother gained sense at last?”

Agron giggled.

Duro scoffed. “Were he not a commander of Gauls, I would fucking challenge.”

“You find fault with his homeland?” I blurted.

“What--no!” Duro rushed to reply. “Our alliance is too newly knit to risk embarrassment.”

I rolled my eyes in concert with Agron. To my lover, I muttered, “Our witless brother believes he would win.”

Agron kissed my dusty cheek. “Allow him his dreams.”

“Fuck you both,” Duro retorted, already distracted by the next match: Lysandros and Vitus faced two massive Gauls.

I pitied the Gauls.

Turning to Agron, I kissed his lips and combed his sweaty hair. “I would break words with your brother,” I softly requested.

“So long as it is me that you fuck later,” Agron teased.

I pinched his chin and then grabbed for Duro’s elbow. “I would have words, you stubborn puke.”

He spat out a laugh as I steered him along a quiet lane between tents. “Do you tire of Aurelia?”

My accusation, though not harsh, banished the remnants of his mirth. “I--you--what fucking--!?”

His shock was genuine. I was pleased; I had always believed Duro to stand a man of conviction. Surely, he would have told Aurelia of any significant shift in his regard.

“Then what drives you from her presence, brother?” I queried.

Duro looked away, irritated. “By what means do you take notice?”

“Aurelia herself.” I watched Duro’s brows scrunch with pain. I pressed, “She came to me, seeking the cause of sudden discord.”

He sighed. Capitulated. Confessed. “Varro.”

“What of him?”

“His shade yet lingers,” Duro reluctantly elaborated.

I lifted palms in supplication. “Speak clearly, brother. My intent is set toward mending heart.”

His shoulders slumped. “Some nights past, I returned from patrol and sought rest.”

I nodded, recalling that night. Agron had refused to sleep until his brother had returned to camp safely.

“Upon entry to tent, I saw Nadua in her mother’s arms, both abed,” Duro slowly related. “The babe fussed and I lifted her with intent to soothe before her cries loosened. Though I made attempt to extend her mother’s rest, Aurelia roused and spoke gratitude--” He paused, drawing a deep breath. “--to Varro.”

Ah, fuck.

Swallowing frustration, I grasped Duro’s scruffy cheeks and forced him to look upon my expression. “Aurelia was yet within the land of slumber and spoke absent thought.”

“Is that not how the heart expresses desire?”

“Perhaps,” I allowed. “Do you find fault with her for love of former husband?”

Duro twitched his chin from hands. “You would not feel jealously upon hearing Agron speak the name of another man in bed?”

“Of course I would!” I nearly shouted. “But I would console myself that Agron stands fortunate to have known love in his life before I came into it.”

Duro swallowed thickly.

Exhaling the building irritation from my being, I gave comparison: “Aurelia knew life with a husband for some years, as I knew life with a dominus. Does Agron punish me by denying me his love because I occasionally misspeak out of old habit?”

“He does not,” Duro replied after a pause. “But I have heard him scold you.”

“Necessary words. I would not have learned the ways of freedom absent persistent guidance.”

Duro rolled his lower lip inward, chomping mercilessly upon the flesh in fierce thought. At length, he concluded, “You would have me tell her of it.”

“No.” I spoke correction: “Aurelia would have you tell of it.” I gave his shoulder a shake. “She does not seek to cause harm.”

“She is a good woman.”

“Who deserves a good man, yes?”

“Yes,” Duro agreed, a soft smile curving his mouth. “Gratitude, little brother.”

He leaned close and pressed his forehead briefly to mine. I patted his cheek. “You are the little brother.”

“Fuck off.”

“After you,” I singsonged with a grin. I was still smiling when he set foot to path, intent squaring his shoulders.

I spun upon heel, giddy at apparent success and pleased to make swift return to Agron’s side. The night stretched out before us and I was eager to spend it as I liked. Emerging from between two tents, I suddenly felt the gaze of another upon me. I looked up and to the left, catching the blatant gaze of familiar man. Syrian-hued skin, dark eyes, leather cap.

I knew this man. On the banks of Calor, he had come to aid and then disappeared into the mist without a word in parting. And then, just moments before Gordianus had bellowed my name, across battlefield aftermath, I had again glimpsed this man’s watchful gaze. Drawing breath, I parted lips to call out--

“Nasir!”

I reared back as Castus ducked into line of sight, beaming and breathless. “You did not witness my victory against Lugo?”

I snorted. “Did anyone? Or is this a vision of your imagining?”

He pouted. Fucking _****pouted.****_

Well, no fluttering lashes or plumped lips would distract me from the fact that my watcher -- the man I’d fought alongside at the Calor -- had disappeared.

Fuck.

Castus followed the direction of my gaze and glanced over shoulder. When he swung back around, his smile was bright, and I braced for oncoming jest.

“Bah,” Castus dismissed with a sweeping gesture. “You are overtired from your own match, eh? Which I watched most avidly.”

“And learned much to aid you in your own battles, I hope,” I chastised, giving up on discerning where the silent Syrian had gone. Heading back to the main gathering and dancing firelight, I help up a hand to halt Castus’ next round of charming nonsense. “Should you best the Veteran in fair contest, I would stand impressed indeed.”

“Stands that as how Agron achieved your regard?”

I frowned at the bite of earnest inquiry in his tone. “Would such endear you?” I challenged.

My words gave him pause. “No,” he concluded as we emerged from the cluster of tents. “Though it would provide comfort and hope that a man may survive these terrible times, prowess alone would not endear.”

I nodded, daring to assume that Castus and I might have achieved some sort of understanding on the matter.

The Numidian did not accompany me to Agron’s side, though I later glimpsed him conversing with Adal and Vertiscus during that night. Agron teased me at one point for my distraction: “Do I bore you, little man?”

I flicked his ear. “Sense of fucking surroundings.”

He beamed and I was aware of nothing beyond his blinding smile.

Aurelia located me following morning training and offered thanks. Apparently, Duro had heeded my words after all. Gratifying, indeed. I could not blame my young brother for gaining so much satisfaction in mending the occasional rift between Agron and myself. It was a power unlike any other to affect so beautiful a result.

Drawn to my joy, Agron nudged me into the forest on pretense of patrol.

“You merely seek to remove all other recipients of my smile,” I jested.

He laughed. “I am a jealous goat.”

“A fact I have long known.” And accepted.

When I pulled him close to receive my kiss, he voiced no complaint. Other noises were given voice, yes, but there was not a single complaint among them.

The third day of our rest dawned overcast and dreary. The air was heavy and breeze absent. People conducted chores and training with a forced laziness as though return to the discomforts of the road were not imminent.

When I remarked upon the lack of enthusiasm for resuming travel, Duro chortled. “Ha! This is naught but a stroll compared to the path through the Alps!”

Agron thumped his brother’s arm. “Do not discourage.”

“Discourage? Who, Nasir? Pfft,” Duro disregarded. “The gods themselves could not pry him from your side.”

“How rare sense falls from lips, Duro,” I needled. “I stand honored to witness it.”

Duro smirked at me before punching Agron hard in the shoulder. “Open fucking eyes, brother.”

With those cryptic words, Duro went to seek evening meal with Aurelia, leaving Agron and myself to wander past my little monsters. All were fed and accounted for. Emesa demanded an embrace and Agron assisted Cholle with cinching belt properly at her waist. I recognized the accessory has having once belonged to Glima.

Glima… I’d heard tell from Adal that she had defended the little monsters at cost of her own life. How many of these boys and girls would reach lands beyond Roman control? To honor her sacrifice, I would see each and every one of them to full life and freedom. While standing with my Germans. Perhaps not the safest path, but I could not bear to walk any other.

“Hm?” Agron asked, brows quirked at the frown tugging my lips.

I shrugged. “Selfish thoughts.”

“I doubt that. Whatever benefits you, also pleases Duro and myself.”

Ah. I had forgotten: the three of us stood together, now and on the morrow for as many days were yet to come. And bound to each other, we would face any threat. Alone, I would struggle to deliver these children to happy fates, but beside my Germans, task was nearly guaranteed.

Agron rewarded my smile with a soft kiss. His slowness in leaning back served as reminder of our cot and relative privacy of tent. One more night of energy spent in pursuits of our choosing. Yes, I had much cause to smile… and anticipate.

“Apologies--”

Agron straightened and I faced Lydon’s interruption.

My lover asked, “You bring news?”

“The gravest sort,” he confirmed and to me said, “Spartacus would break words.”

Agron squeezed my bare shoulder. “I fetch Duro.”

I accompanied the Iberian toward the tent Spartacus shared with Mira, praying that the circumstance was not as dire as Lydon’s somber expression indicated. We passed scattered meal fires and clusters of tents, climbing the gentle rise to where Spartacus’ tent had been pitched at short distance from the rest. Given the burdens our Thracian shouldered on behalf of all, I found no fault with his preference for quiet seclusion. Except that absent other human sounds, all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart knocking between lungs.

Lydon nodded me toward the tent, pulling back the fabric to reveal Lysandros standing with Spartacus, who was smiling and patting the shoulder of a visitor: a man familiar in form and I realized here stood--

“Calius!” My shout was made nearly soundless, breath slamming into blockage of shock.

The man turned with a grin and rushed forward, embracing me hard. Absent permission granted. I returned it with equal strength. It was only when I felt dull ache from cheeks that I realized I was smiling hard enough to crack my own teeth.

“Fuck the gods,” I laughed, prompting mirth from my old friend.

Calius pulled back, and I spun around to scold Lydon. “And you! Your dour countenance convinced me I was approaching corpse of dear brother!”

The Iberian chuckled and gestured for Lysandros to accompany him.

“It is good to see you again, brother,” Lysandros told Calius and, with a pat to the man’s shoulder, Lysandros and Lydon took their leave of Spartacus’ tent.

I claimed a moment to look over Calius for signs of injury or telltale scars from arduous venture. “You are hale,” I assessed with pleasant surprise.

“You taught me well.”

Again, my face stung from joy.

“We would hear all,” Spartacus encouraged, “but you gave mention of urgent matters.”

“Yes.” He nodded on a sharp exhalation. “The praetors recently defeated following the battle at Garganus -- Publicola and Clodianus -- yet hold Senate’s support and now combine their armies.”

“Know you where they now stand?”

“North,” Calius answered with gravity. “Upon this path. They make preparations for hard battle.”

Calius gave details: distance in leagues, the number of infantry and cavalry counted, the acreage of land claimed and heavy artillery at ready.

“How know you this?” I inquired. The man was far too dark of skin to pass as freeborn Roman citizen; he could not have joined Rome’s army.

“I assist Camilla, who travels with follower’s camp as a healer.”

“Your presence there will be missed.”

In answer to my concern, he replied: “I am sent on errand to gather herbs and other materials from the woodland.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I became lost over night. On a cloudless day, such a thing happens.”

Indeed it might.

Spartacus hummed. “Let us hope the gods allow you some sunlight and direction of shadow to guide your return on the morrow.”

“Unless you would remain here,” I quickly offered. I would not ask him to return and risk being greeted by accusation should his trickery be suspected.

“Gratitude, but Camilla awaits.”

I understood: the two of them had undoubtedly endured much together. Bonds forged through hardship and uncertain times were nigh unbreakable. “Then make not return journey unaccompanied. Lysandros might--”

What Lysandros might do remained unspoken. The sharp sound of tearing tent fabric screamed through my words. Spartacus, Calius, and I spun toward the noise: three swords carving openings in each wall at a height to allow a man’s form to pass.

Three men did. Three very large, armed and battle-ready men.

I assessed them quickly as Spartacus passed one of his swords to Calius. Mine was already in hand.

A man of mangled face and unkempt beard, sword in hand, grinned at Calius.

Another -- bald scalp, short beard, and barbarian tattoos -- faced Spartacus from opposite side of tent.

The third approached me. Head shaven and sharp sickles in hand.

Tent opening fluttered and a fourth man shrugged through, taller than the rest. Long, dark braids. Cold, cruel gaze. Scarred form. Daggers grasped in fists.

_****Mercenaries.** ** _

And then--

There was no time for words, and Spartacus made no effort to utter entreaty.

Attackers converged upon us in coordinated rush absent pause for ultimatum. It was our lives, then, that they sought. Spartacus bellowed a war cry. Calius screamed challenge. I hissed invitation.

_****Clink! Clang! Whoosh!** ** _

Blades of sickles and sword swept and caught against one another in the narrow confines. I stomped upon foot--

Elbow to jaw and I staggered back, ducked, spun--

Sword’s edge caught enemy at knee--

Sickle bit shoulder--

My heel dragged down shin--

Calius’ enraged cry--

A stranger’s sadistic chuckle was cut short on a grunt. I could not spare the attention to either bear witness or assist my friend.

A knee caught me in groin and the pain -- incredible agony. I roared, fell back. Just as shoulders connected with ground, I kicked out. Returned blow.

Opponent cried out, winced.

I rolled into his feet, blade to groin--

Missed target and sliced through the man’s hand and fingers instead. I pedaled feet, shoved aside, rolled upright--

Back of knees caught upon another’s crouched or extended form--Calius and enemy locked in deadly embrace. I stabbed neck of the scarred man. He fell and Calius wrenched sword free, spun, faced my attacker and countered sickle’s path--

“Nasir!”

I turned.

Found myself face to face with death.

_****Weapon in grasp and fucking fierce.** ** _

And then--

Tattooed attacker lurched, jerked, blinked. Halted the briefest moment. Glanced down at sword’s tip poking through torso.

A wailing scream of pain from beyond the tent--

Spartacus? No, not him, but then where was Spartacus?

_**Whoosh!** _

Calius ducked frantically beneath assassin’s swing and I lunged over the body of scarred would-be-killer at my feet, dived for the sickle-wielding fuck’s belly. Stabbed deep, winced at oncoming sickle--the man’s last act would take me with him to the afterlife--

A blade slicing up, severing the man’s arm at elbow--the spray of hot blood showering my face, painting bared teeth and striking eyelashes.

Calius dived forward and cut mercenary’s throat and--

Silence. All within tent was quiet save the panting breaths of myself, Calius, and a third man. A man who was not Spartacus. I looked up and locked gazes with the Syrian of leather cap. He glared at me, but made no move to attack. I nonetheless placed myself between him and Calius.

The motion jarred the moment.

The Syrian glanced toward nearest rent in tent fabric. Jaw clenched as he clearly considered fleeing. My arm shot out and hand gripped his blood-splattered arm.

“I would have your name.”

“As would I!” Spartacus spoke from tent opening. He, too, had been bathed in blood not his own. “But first Oenomaus requires treatment from healer’s hands.”

Though Spartacus meant for me to see to the man -- and though I happily would -- Calius breathlessly volunteered: “I will tend to him.”

He took one shaky step--

“NASIR!”

Spartacus stumbled as Agron shoved past, his gaze sweeping tent’s bloody disarray with growing horror before landing upon me. He gave no indication of seeing anything beyond my form and the fact that I yet stood.

In the next moment, I was in his arms. His brow pressed to mine, his hand curling hard upon injured shoulder.

I winced. Hissed softly.

“You suffer wound,” my lover realized, wiping at the blood before clamping flesh shut.

Ah, fuck it hurt. I endured in silence. Placement of sickle’s strike was such that I could not reach it myself; I trusted Agron to aid.

A shout outside; Gannicus called Oenomaus’ name and Calius’ calm tone gave answer. Oenomaus yet lived, though from the Celt’s audible panic the wound was severe.

“Goatfuck,” Duro breathed, announcing his arrival to our gathering.

“No goats,” I murmured, focusing hard upon Agron’s astonished-concerned-furious features in order to push back waves of dizziness. “Apologies.”

“Well, at least they are not Romans,” my little brother obnoxiously pointed out. “I yet outnumber you on that score.”

I snorted. Agron aimed his scowl over shoulder and toward Duro--

“These men were under Roman employ.”

We all pivoted to face our unknown ally.

“You fucking know these shits?” Duro demanded.

“Yes.” The Syrian’s gaze traveled from one cooling body to the other and then shifted past Spartacus to where the fourth man presumably lay dead in open air. “Mercenaries of some repute. Fimbria,” he gestured to the mutilated form of the man who had fought with sickles. And then named the man of deformed features: “Danus.” The one of tattooed face who had taken sword through back and chest was called--“Abrax.” Meeting Spartacus’ stare, he explained, “The other is known only as The Egyptian. Does he escape?”

“To seek the services of Charon,” Spartacus replied and the Syrian released held breath.

Agron shifted into more aggressive stance. “We would know your name.”

“And what profession you held before joining our numbers,” Duro added with a total lack of humor. Perhaps the circumstances demanded forthright address.

Dark gaze flicked toward me before looking away. “I am Nileus. Formerly… mercenary.”

“And you knew these men…” I spoke.

Nileus nodded once. “We crossed paths in Campania.”

“Under Roman employ,” Agron accused. Hand upon bloodied shoulder tightened.

Nileus noticed the gesture. “Yes. Now ease grip lest you squeeze the blood from him.”

I blinked at undeniable proof that Nileus valued my life.

Agron’s grip loosened, but I clasped my lover’s wrist in show of solidarity.

“Gratitude, Nileus,” Spartacus spoke, “for coming to aid.”

And not for the first time. “Gratitude,” I agreed. “For your efforts today and at Calor.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on me. “See to the wound.”

He then moved toward tent’s proper opening. When Spartacus moved aside to allow passage, Duro reluctantly mirrored him. As Agron put to rights the nearest seat and eased me down upon it, Duro watched Nileus’ departure through open tent flap.

When he gave a nod to Spartacus, the Thracian inquired to me, “You have had dealings with Nileus?”

“Though I did not know his name until now, yes.” I told Duro and Agron with pointed gaze, “Were it not for his aid at Calor, I would be dead.”

Duro opened his mouth -- perhaps recalling my vow to survive and endure for the sake of my Germans -- but then closed it absent words. How long would I have drawn breath courtesy of Rome? Only as long as it would have taken to learn my name and ready nails and cross. Glaber had taught me well: I was a wanted man by the Republic.

“Who fucking sent them?” Duro sputtered. “Crassus?”

“Unlikely--” I began only to have Spartacus finish: “Anyone who would benefit from our ranks devolving into chaos.”

“Fucking mercenaries,” my lover growled. With an exasperated huff, he declared, “They did not come for Spartacus alone.”

My head spun as realization broke upon thoughts: I had not had opportunity or occasion to confer with Spartacus in recent weeks. Not since arrival of Gordianus’ nephew bearing message. And it had been even longer since we had spoken in private: Metapontum and Castus’ confession.

Tonight’s attack. I had also been intended target?

I shook my head, unable to comprehend the implication that I held so much sway. The mere the knowledge that the Syrian Nasir yet lived, could such a thing hold threat enough to the quibbling cowards of the Republic?

“They kept watch,” Duro summarized, “and found opportunity with Calius’ return.”

“We stand fortunate that the eyes of enemies are not the only ones trained upon our movements,” Spartacus gently chided.

Duro crossed his arms, equally as reluctant to trust as his older brother clearly was.

I reached up and petted Agron’s too-long beard. “We yet draw breath.”

Spartacus glanced toward the north and, with a sinking feeling, I recalled Calius’ report.

“Spread word to the others,” the Thracian requested, his attention already turning toward scattered maps which local herdsmen -- men who had joined our cause in recent days -- had helped illustrate. “Rome sends its defeated praetors against us once more.” Looking up, he vowed, “I would see an end to their arrogance and freedom within our grasp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Egyptian, Abrax, Danus, Fimbria, and Nileus were the mercenaries that Ashur hired/assembled in Vengeance. See? I didn’t forget about them. (^_~)


	6. Love and Family (Duro POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duro POV
> 
> WARNINGS: reference to torture (crucifixion)

Singing.

For once, the Gauls roared praises to something other than their own cocks. But it was only a matter of time before they bellowed familiar chorus. I chuckled. Shook head. Rolled eyes. But my elation was undiminished. How could it be with battle won and Spartacus’ army standing victorious over field of corpses? Fuck, but bards would regale audiences with tales of our prowess for generations to come!

Two Roman legions -- an army that Nasir had neatly termed “combined consular forces” -- lay fucking _****decimated.****_

Fuck but I wished I’d been on the battlefield for it. Lugo had taken my place and fought alongside Adal under Rabanus’ command. At least I’d held spectacular view.

And our efforts had matched -- mayhap exceeded! -- those of men with sword in hand:

“Catapults do not burn themselves,” I’d teased Nasir upon eve of battle, giving reminder of task assigned by Spartacus and cutting off my little Syrian brother’s litany of curse-interspersed apologies. Removing heavy artillery from Roman command would save dozens of our fearsome brothers and cost the Romans hundreds of their own men. A satisfactory compensation for surrendering command and forefront position to Lugo. This once.

“Were I better,” Nasir had ground out through gritted teeth, “you would stand upon field of battle.”

I had assumed he spoke of injury to shoulder -- a deep gouge requiring excruciating rinsing and several stitches -- until Agron had tucked a knuckle beneath his lover’s chin and titled face up to receive solemn words: “Duro and I will not permit you to release us from vow.”

Ah. Our pledge -- taken above stables in Neapolis -- to stand united no matter the circumstances. I’d blinked, realized my little brother’s meaning, and accused: “You regret opening heart to us?”

“It weakens me beyond pain of this fucking wound,” he’d snapped. Not unlike a wild, little dog. I’d prudently kept fingers clear of his jaws.

Agron, on the other hand, seemed to welcome nip and scar. “We three take our place in this fight. Come. Let us make preparations toward opportunity to claim our share of Roman lives.”

Nasir had refused to content himself with light duties and token efforts. Fuck, we were fortunate that our stubborn little Syrian warrior had consented to wear a sling. Neither Agron nor I nor Spartacus had forced the issue when Nasir had turned up his nose at offered seat during dawn-lit conference where the last of our plans were set.

“Our strength,” Spartacus had explained, “lies not only in our unity, but in daring the unexpected.”

The unexpected. Yes, I supposed our response to the fucking combined consular forces could be deemed such. Our warriors had captured Roman patrols in dead of night before battle, allowing Mira and her archers to conceal themselves among the surrounding landscape. My brothers and I, Castus and many of our little monsters, had followed Calius’ lead and circled around to rear of formation. At dawn, to the sound of iron nails being pounded into flesh and the screams of Roman hostages, we had crept within striking range of artillery. The Roman army had been stupefied as though spellbound, watching their own men being crucified at rebel front lines.

“Let them lay eyes upon the monsters they make of us,” Nasir had breathed and I’d shivered from inexplicable chill.

A chill felt by each and every Roman if piss-poor attempt to resist Spartacus’ army were proper indication.

And then, of course, my brothers and I had assumed command of catapults, shifted weights, and launched missiles upon the enemy. A fucking enjoyable day’s work: simple twist of rope-and-wheel, snap of lever, roaring flame arcing overhead and crashing into Roman lines. Agron’s roaring battle cry. Nasir’s fierce snarl. My own giddy laughter as tally rose with each pulse -- the sharp crack of release, the rush-hiss-whisper of air and flame and doom, the thunder and rolling snarl of impact.

We did not merely fuck the Romans from behind, but from the sky itself.

The battle was done almost too quickly -- swift and blatant escape made by both praetors. Fucking useless Roman shits.

Reason enough to now make merry celebration upon their weak and quivering shades.

“The way north is ours,” Nasir summarized with satisfaction, gaze roving over boisterous revelry.

Fuck, his prediction at vernal equinox had withstood the test of truth. Our Syrian warrior, correct again. It was as fucking irritating as ever.

Retaliating, I nearly threw an arm around his shoulders in order to maul him into aromatic embrace, but recalled presence of wound at last possible moment. I patted his head instead, earning a glower for it.

“Fuck off,” Agron chuckled. “Should you sour Nasir’s mood, I’ll have your fucking balls.”

I sputtered a laugh despite knowing with absolute certainty that Agron spoke no exaggeration. “So be it. I make report to Spartacus.”

Agron paused in the act of accompanying Nasir to attend meal fire. When he squinted, chin and brows tilting in question, I heard his unspoken thoughts and nodded.

“Duro…” he objected quietly.

I gripped his arm. “It is time. Should the Alps truly stand as the next obstacle to path…” I summoned a smile. “…then it is time.”

Agron swallowed, looking toward Nasir with poorly-concealed terror etched upon his features. Thankfully, Oruros and Demetrias had pranced into path and now occupied our little brother’s attention in full.

“Allow yourself faith in him,” I counseled in words from home.

Agron shook his head. “To ask him to… It is too much.”

“I would never force you, brother. Not whilst another holds your heart.”

He barked a laugh, throwing back his head and blinking back moisture gathering in eyes. With a deep breath, he calmed and faced me. “You forget your place.”

“Perhaps you ought forget yours.” I released his arm and punched his shoulder lightly. I then sought Spartacus. I would have words before the caravans arrived.

Naevia and Crixus had just begun making report when I ducked into the tent Spartacus had claimed. One of those worthless fucking Roman praetors had sat ass here no doubt. What a difference a day’s time could affect.

One by one, Spartacus’ allies accounted for deaths and injuries, weapons and supplies. I assumed they spoke in order of arrival and I was content to wait my turn.

Patience. A thing unknown to me east of the Rhine now stood as stalwart companion. Upon occasion.

“Come and drink with Sibyl and myself, brother,” Gannicus invited.

“Should Aurelia be agreeable, I’ll gladly assist you in emptying amphora.”

“Fuck,” the Celt muttered through a beaming grin, “our balls are held by our women.”

“Soft hands. I make no complaint.”

“Ah! Ha-ha-ha!” He thumped me on the shoulder and followed the others from Spartacus’ tent and toward the festivities beyond.

“Well done,” the Thracian praised, speaking of the day’s efforts, and I felt my grin stretch even wider.

“Eh.” I shrugged with feigned indifference. “Sabotaging artillery and supplies stands an easier task than slaying Romans. At least catapults do not run away overcome with terror.”

Spartacus huffed, exhaling with humor.

I turned to Mira and opened mouth--

“You require a moment alone with Spartacus,” she guessed wryly.

Astute. “I do, but in effort to ease concerns rather than add to worries.”

“In that case, I gather food.” She pressed a quick kiss to the man’s cheek and ducked past draping tent fabric.

“A mighty boast,” Spartacus murmured, amused. “Do you stretch truth to gain Mira’s approval?”

“On that matter, you shall decide,” I quipped and then told him what might await our numbers beyond the Alps.

From my lips, a sacred truth I had not dared to utter aloud before this moment. I confessed all. And then awaited response.

Spartacus stared at me for a long moment in stunned silence. Finally, he breathed, “Not even Nasir is aware of these things?”

“No,” I admitted unhappily. Though I hoped that would change presently.

The Thracian’s gaze turned inward.

“Does this interfere with your designs for freedom?”

He looked up sharply. “Hm? No. In fact, it may provide timely solution… if your claims yet hold truth.”

“A year is a long time,” I allowed and then offered a hopeful smile. “Only the gods could know where we shall find ourselves a year from this day, eh?”

“Indeed.” Spartacus stood and offered his arm. “Gratitude, Duro. I shall make announcement once all have gathered.” When I stiffened, he added, “I make no mention of what you spoke of in confidence.”

“Gratitude,” I said, grasping his arm and then leaving him to his thoughts.

Though I held no specific intent to return to my brothers, I found my feet directing me toward the place where I had parted ways with them. Truly, I felt no inclination to take meal with Agron. Here and now, distance was a choice, a thing neither of us would be allowed east of the Rhine.

I stopped, turned away from flickering meal fire ahead, and took pause.

A figure within shadow, expressionless stare spearing across distance and through milling forms, focus fixed upon Agron and his lover.

I approached, noting how the man shifted once my intent was made clear. He made no attempt at flight and I appreciated his show of determination. I was curious as to whether it would survive my inquest.

“Nileus,” I greeted. “Do additional mercenaries lurk in our midst?”

He inhaled slowly, spine lengthening though he would never reach my height. Still, he stood taller than the one seated beside the object of his study and of longer and more ruthless experience in the manner of meting out pain and death. I would not allow this sour, scowling fuck opportunity to inflict injury upon my little brother.

“Aside from me,” Nileus carefully replied, “there must surely be others. None that I recognize.”

“And so you watch all.”

Dark eyes briefly focused my way, glaring irritation. “You are aware of who I watch.”

Careful words. Fucking meaningless. I claimed opportunity to incite fury: “Coin-loving fuck! I am aware of who you _**target!”**_

Rage ignited and Nileus returned blow: “The same man your brother would accost!”

What utter fucking nonsense! “Agron would never harm Nasir,” I boasted, shoving into the Syrian’s space.

He spun to face me and snarled, spittle flying, “And you have always held certainty that none stood incapable of harming _****your**** _brother?”

_****YOUR brother.**** _ The slightest stress upon mundane word, yet it brought truth forth as light exploding from the fucking heavens.

My eyes widened, jaw unhinged.

Nileus retreated half a step, then seemed to force himself to stand his ground. “Fuck,” he muttered, panting softly. His hands curled into tight fists but he made no move to lash out.

“No,” I denied. “You cannot be…”

“It matters not,” he huffed and -- goatfucking fuck -- he sounded as Nasir had that first night within ludus, challenging Varro at cage grate. “All you need know is that I mean him no harm.”

“You fucking--fuck,” I exhaled, nearly dizzy from shock. “It does fucking matter. If you are who you claim to--”

“I make no claim.” Nileus bared his teeth. “Aside from fact: I lived and traveled Rome as a mercenary. Have you any notion of how many deaths or how much pain and suffering these hands have caused?” He lifted open palms for my inspection. “All for the sake of coin!”

Did he think me stupid? “Were coin of paramount importance, you would have made attempt on his life!”

“No man travels Rome absent payment!”

Rather than hold love of Roman coin, Nileus despised it. Tide of realization pushed me back and I gave ground. “No man travels Rome absent aim.” Traders and pirates sought coin. Gannicus had sought solace. This man, however… “You sought your brother.”

When Nileus gave no objection, I pressed: “And you have found him--”

“He must never know the cost.”

“You hold no notion of what he would forgive you--”

“You will not speak of this!” Nileus hissed, pressing close enough to bite. “You will remove our words from thoughts--”

“Fuck ass on fucking pike, you shit! You think I take no note of Nasir’s heartache when he casts gaze upon me and Agron and witnesses brotherly bond? You think he has forgotten--”

“He was too young to recall clearly. There was no recognition when he laid eyes upon me.” Nileus shook his head. “Vague notions of loss. Such are preferable to vicious truth.”

I poked a finger into the center of the man’s chest. “Tell him.”

He smacked my hand aside. “Should my little brother learn of our relation, I place blame at your feet.”

“Gladly!”

“Hold fucking tongue.” The man took a step back and stated with sudden, unnatural calm, “Or I shall cut Agron’s throat in front of you.”

I gaped as he moved back into the deepening shadows of dusk and slipped away.

Fuck. That fucking goat cunt fucker!

How dare he assume to know best!? He had not been present the night Nasir had been branded with the mark of the Brotherhood; he had not heard the lost and fearful agony in Nasir’s voice: _****“** **Is my brother dead?”****_

How dare he abandon his own fucking flesh and blood to never knowing truth: _****“** **I do not know his fate. Nor remember his face… his name…”****_

Fucking fuck! How dare that self-important fuck ignore--!

The sound of Nasir’s laughter tumbled through the happy murmurings and distantly bellowed chorus. My gaze landed upon sight of Agron grinning as Nasir playfully shoved him aside and sat at makeshift table opposite Lysandros for a round of arm wrestling. Fucking arm wrestling. With opposite arm yet in sling and shoulder fucked and yet my little brother would fucking arm wrestle.

Propping fists upon hips, I watched, smiling helplessly as Lysandros grasped Nasir’s hand and Agron gave command. They strained in earnest contest and Agron -- the fucking goat -- dared to kick at Lysandros’ shin, which caused Nasir to immediately forfeit, shooting up from seat to poke a shamelessly beaming Agron upon his nose.

Those two ridiculous fucks.

“Doo-wo!”

I startled, bracing myself moments before a small body hurled itself upon my legs. “Oomph! Help! Help!” I cried, ruffling Janus’ hair. “Someone come to aid! I am attacked by most ferocious monster!”

“He missed you,” Aurelia remarked, appearing with Nadua held to breast, just as Janus started gnawing on my bare thigh.

“I would argue otherwise,” I teased. “That was a direct hit. Ow! You little terror -- you bit me!”

He squealed.

I tossed him high in the air, catching him in both arms and, finding a patch of bared skin to press lips upon, blew a buzzing kiss.

Hiking the squiggling boy onto my shoulder, I told Aurelia, “Apologies. I meant to greet the caravan.”

“Under Oenomaus’ strict orders, we make faster time than expected.”

“Ha! Yes, well, who wouldn’t?” Even with only one eye courtesy of that fucking Egyptian and wound only just begun to heal, the man was a force to be reckoned with. I had only dared to cross him once -- upon my arrival at Batiatus’ ludus -- and then only because I had been too arrogant to acknowledge how dire had stood our circumstances. “Have you eaten?” I asked and threw myself into ensuring Aurelia’s comfort.

An hour before midnight, word reached our ears that Spartacus would give announcement. Agron and Nasir found us in the crowd moments after Castus joined our group. My brother immediately arranged himself to guard his lover’s injured flank. Nasir voiced no objection, but the act was not unnoticed. Not if I were reading the small, knowing smirk on my little brother’s face rightly.

Spartacus sat astride the largest of available horses, waiting for his people to assemble. His people. Yes, I supposed we were. Here upon Roman soil, the man stood as our king.

“Today, my brothers and sisters, we faced Rome! We fought the might of the Republic. Every Roman soldier the Senate could spare took to the field and fell to us! Today, we claim yet another victory against our enemy!”

Cheers. Roars. Fists thrust high into the air.

“Today, the battle is won. Tomorrow, the war continues.”

Silence.

Spartacus looked toward me and I nodded. “Our German brother Duro knows of a place of refuge beyond the Alps. A land where a new life may be built by those with the strength of will to craft it for themselves. Go with him and claim freedom.”

Murmurs.

“But I,” Spartacus continued, “do not go north. I move south!”

Gasps.

“I move to take Rome from within! I fight to end its arrogance and cruelty. I fight so that all the world will know of its defeat! Rome’s time has ended! Let us see it done!”

A shout, Gordianus roaring a single name in show of support: “Spartacus!”

And the multitudes agreed: “Spartacus! Spartacus! Spartacus! Spartacus!”

So it began. The divide of those who would defy Rome in open battle from those who would defy it by embracing freedom.

Nasir tilted chin up as Agron glanced his way. A shared look. Nasir placed hand upon Agron’s hip and nodded. Agron bit the corner of his own lip and thumbed a breeze-tumbled lock of hair from Nasir’s brow.

I did not envy my brother his task ahead: voicing truths he had yet to share with the one most deserving of receiving them.

Spartacus dismounted and slowly shouldered his way through the crowd, accepting arms offered in alliance and friendly pat upon back. When he reached me, he once again extended hand in friendship and I clasped him tight in brotherly embrace. Affection for this fucking fortune-favored Thracian overwhelmed. Sentiment crippled body. Tears stung eyes. Words choked throat.

He turned to Agron, but did not ask where my brother’s loyalty lay.

“We shall see them to safety,” Agron vowed and Spartacus blinked moisture from his eyes.

“A charge I would entrust to none other,” the Thracian agreed. And then his gaze fell upon Nasir.

Nasir -- Agron’s heart and my own little Syrian brother -- extended arm and said very clearly, “I would have gladly watched Rome burn.”

Agron’s chest hitched with belated breath. I myself was robbed of words at the show of solidarity.

Spartacus smiled. “Not tomorrow, no.” He glanced briefly my way and then reassured Nasir: “But one day… it may be so.”

Ah, how quickly our fierce Syrian warrior’s mind worked. I could see the thoughts chase one another across his face. He looked from Agron to me and I playfully wiggled my brows. If the ancestors looked favorably upon us, this would not be the last time we crossed the Alps.

As Spartacus moved toward Crixus and Naevia, the crowd shifted with him, relieving the crush of bodies surrounding us. I had space enough to chase Janus back to the tent that Chadara and Donar had helped erect though neither was in sight. In fact, I might not cast gaze upon either of them ‘til dawn. So stood their love of celebrations.

Janus and I bathed with water warmed at fireside and cuts of cloth in hand as Nadua nursed. As ever, Aurelia presented back, allowing as much privacy as could be managed among shoddy camp of ceaseless caravan.

When Janus giggled at the dark hair curling upon my groin, I teased him with certain threat: “You shall have your own some day, then we shall see who laughs, eh?” But I tickled his knees and neck to ensure mirth was had, regardless.

I sang Janus to sleep as Aurelia bathed Nadua, and then I held the babe in my arms while her mother used the last of the water for herself.

“Nadua,” I hummed, listening to each puff of breath which burst from her slack, rosy lips. I had heard tell of this little girl’s father while yet in the ludus. Just thinking of what Aurelia must have endured from the wretched fuck that had forced himself upon her-- _ ** **fuck,****_ but I ached to bring pain in kind upon that Roman shit.

But such thoughts would gain nothing. And truthfully, vengeance seemed inconsequential when there were true dangers yet ahead. The Alps were not crossed lightly. Not even the slavers who had dared to place themselves above me and my brother had risked hauling their catch over those peaks. Yet, despite gentler detour taken, many of the captured men who had marched with us had succumbed to chill or festering wound long before setting foot on rancid fucking slaver’s ship. I felt genuine terror at the thought of this tiny girl facing such hardships.

“Nadua,” I singsonged quietly, a lullaby which soothed my own fears.

Her little fists grabbed for me in her sleep, dark eyes yet shut. Had Varro lived to cast gaze upon her, he would have forgotten that she did not share his blood. Fuck, it was far too easy to pretend that she was mine.

A hand upon my shoulder. By some miracle, I did not startle at Aurelia’s touch. So deep within thoughts, my ears had ceased to heed the sound of water and cloth upon bare skin.

Clothed once more, Aurelia leaned close, tilting her cheek against my shoulder. “Many people assume she is yours.”

She--mine--fuck--how to breathe--it--

I coughed. Inhaled. Ah, yes, that was the way of it.

“Oh, Duro. The look of utter panic upon your face,” Aurelia teased, tracing my brows with soft fingertips.

“I do not panic,” I argued. “Perhaps, there are moments of such, well, perhaps I am momentarily surprised… but a warrior from lands east of the Rhine does not panic!”

“Is that where we go? East of the Rhine?”

“It is the land I know. Should you discover a place more favorable…” I shrugged, words tangling in throat.

“Were I to settle to land elsewhere, you would make no objection?”

I smiled through the raw ache within chest. “I would hold no right.”

My brother and Nasir had taught me that. When our Syrian had set foot from fucking Roman villa absent both me and Agron. I’d held no right to block his path. Thus, I held no right to block Aurelia’s. I could only ask. And hope.

She sat upon the cot where Janus slumbered. Her knee bumped against mine. “I have apologized for when I unknowingly called you--”

“That is not--it is forgotten,” I hurriedly assured her.

Aurelia sighed and looked over shoulder toward her son, sprawled upon his belly and spine twisting at the incredible angle in which only small children and lazy cats can find comfort.

“I cannot forget him.”

Him. Varro.

“Speak not as though I fault you for it.” I sighed. “I am selfish to--” I stopped. Swallowed. And allowed that yes, perhaps there were occasions -- rare in manner and number -- in which a warrior from east of the Rhine might panic.

“To what?” Aurelia persisted. Of course she did.

Goatfuck. I mumbled: “You’re fortunate that Janus is an older brother. And Nadua will never know life as a younger son and selfish boy.”

“And what would a selfish boy desire?”

I looked up and into her eyes. Helpless. “Your love.”

A moment of silence thrummed between us.

I licked my lip, nerves crashing against each other like blades in battle.

And then her hands, perhaps not as soft as they had once been -- toughened by hard journey and menial tasks -- gently framed my unshaven jaw.

“Duro… I have loved once before, yes. The love of a girl for a boy. A girl who could see neither fault of character nor inevitable consequence beyond gentle touch and charming smile.” Nodding, Aurelia admitted, “That girl loved a boy with all that she had… until, weathered by time and heartache, she grew into a woman.”

Tears brimmed upon her lashes and, with fingertips, I lifted the moisture away. She grasped my wrist in one hand even as her thumb caressed my cheek. “I am now a woman who loves a _****man.****_ A man of gentle touch and charming smile, yes, but who is… loud--”

I barked a laugh in silence.

She continued, smiling: “And wild, proud, playful, crass, loyal, stubborn, gentle, brash, and honorable despite being taken with occasional bouts of envy.”

I smoothed knuckles softly over the curve of her cheek.

“Tell me, Duro. Are my eyes opened? Do I see you truly?”

“You see me as none other has before,” I gasped out. “But not truly, for I’ve not shown you all.”

She breathed a soft giggle across the back of my hand. “If you speak of what is found beneath cup and cloth, need I remind you that I have a son?”

I bit lip once more, shoulders shaking as I strove for silence. Gods save us all if Janus awoke now. “Though I happily allow your evaluation of those parts,” I gamely replied, “there is another matter.”

Her hand slid from my face to rest upon knee and she somberly invited, “Speak it.”

Drawing fortifying breath, I told her what I had told Spartacus: “Agron and I share a father. It is to his lands that I would lead these people. A place where we might build homes, tend fields, and live -- proudly -- beneath the banner of a man renowned by the tribes. Aurelia, what I now speak of you must never repeat, not even to your own family.”

“My family is lost to me,” Aurelia replied after a long moment. “I go with you.”

Though my heart had long craved this vow -- though I’d spent days and nights wishing for it -- the words themselves only wounded.

Reaching for the hand upon my knee, I lifted it. Cradled it in my own. I would not hold her tightly. She should be free to refuse me.

“The men of my family -- we hold customs different from that of Rome where one man may have only one wife.”

Her expression jerked. Spine straightened. She did not withdraw her touch. “You have a wife who awaits your return?”

“No!” I nearly shouted in my haste. Nadua fidgeted in her sleep and I softened tone: “I do not. But I cannot promise that--perhaps future circumstances may demand--” Fuck, I was goatfucking this.

“These circumstances you speak of…” Aurelia breathed in confusion. “Surely they concern kings. Great kings who govern multitudes. But you are--”

“I am not such a king,” I firmly interrupted, confirmed, and confessed: “Not yet.”

This -- my people’s greatest secret -- I shared on a whisper. The most powerful weapon we held against Rome: not cultivated rumors of petty wars and tribe rivalries, but truth regarding our silent unity. So long as Rome remained mired in ignorance and confusion, the unconquered tribes east of the Rhine held advantage against advancing legions.

Throat dry and heart pounding, I told Aurelia, “Though Agron is our father’s older son, he stands not as the heir who shall one day lead the allied tribes that dwell east of the Rhine. That charge… is mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… yeah. I dunno if Duro’s revelation was a bombshell for you or if you saw it coming ever since Agron tried to protect Duro from the stranger who had suddenly appeared in their cage in Batiatus’ ludus (The Recruit: Chapter 1), but there it is. Actually, it was as I was posting Agron and Nasir’s first sexytime (The Arena: Chapter 5) and I was blathering up some notes about why Agron might not be bothered by being physically intimate with Nasir in the ludus (where lots of people could potentially walk past and see them) that I had a brainwave that kicked off some serious research and world-building and there is a lot that I haven’t told you about Agron and Duro’s family… and tribe… and culture, but we will get there OH YES WE WILL because I’m planning a future installment called “Germania.” So, be patient. It’ll be worth it. (^_~)
> 
> Other things of interest (not related to the German Bro Backstory) --
> 
> Yes, Nileus (the Syrian mercenary who Ashur hires in Spartacus: Vengeance) is Nasir’s older brother. I totally get why you might Nope this, but I dig it because HOW ELSE COULD A YOUNG BOY LOOK FOR HIS LITTLE BROTHER WHO WAS CAPTURED AND SOLD AS A SLAVE SOMEWHERE IN ROME? Nileus did whatever he had to do in order to get to the next town so that he could ask around for his brother Nasir. I think becoming a mercenary is a logical move in that situation… if not downright inevitable.
> 
> I read (or heard) somewhere that Spartacus ordered captured Roman soldiers crucified. One source claimed this took place before a battle as the Roman army looked on (and in this instance, just one Roman was crucified, I think?) and it rattled the army so badly that the battle was basically a massacre with the rebels standing victorious. I also heard that, sometime following Crixus’ defeat at Garganus (this does not happen in AMPF -- Nemetes is defeated at Garganus, yeah?), Spartacus lined a major road with crucified Roman soldiers. I’m not saying that really happened. I can’t recall my sources, unfortunately, or if they were even reputable… and, as I’ve mentioned before, a lot of the information we have on Spartacus’ acts during the Third Serville War were recorded decades after the fact.
> 
> Many historians speculate on why Spartacus didn’t cross over the Alps in 72 BC. He had a pretty clear path to freedom, but instead of taking it, he turned his army around and marched south. It’s been implied that he wanted to exact revenge for Crixus’ death, and I’ve also heard it suggested that he wanted to take over the island of Sicily (and if Spartacus had established himself there, he could have controlled a huge portion of trade between the heart of Rome and the rest of the Mediterranean). Nasir will have some thoughts on Spartacus’ motives (which may in fact be in a constant state of flux) in the next chapter.


	7. The Liebgarde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: SEXYTIMES (Agron/Nasir, implied Spartacus/Mira), farewells
> 
> Music rec: “In My Veins” by Andrew Belle

Bastard.

Agron was the bastard son of a man who, for all intents and purposes, could be called a king. A leader who had followed in his own father’s footsteps, committing his life to uniting the tribes living east of the Rhine under one banner. A coalition. A union of fearsome warrior tribes that stood ready to oppose Roman advance across the Rhine.

A mantle Duro rather than his older, half-brother Agron would one day shoulder.

Shock numbed me. I knew my mouth capable of movement only because the sound of my own voice emerged from throat, lips and tongue somehow forming sensible words.

“Your homeland,” I spoke slowly -- quietly -- within the confines of our tent, wary of passersby just beyond concealing fabric. “Your people are so unforgiving of children born outside bonds of marriage?”

“No, not… no. It… fuck.” Agron stared hard at his hands, shoulders hunched and braced upon forearms, elbows digging into thighs where he sat opposite me. He perched upon the cot and I upon table with tent entrance at back. Agron had arranged us so that my way was clear; I could take my leave absent obstacle in path.

“Circumstances complicate?” I suggested.

He exhaled. “Yes. Our people believe… honor or lack of it passes to children. The woman who birthed me betrayed my father.” He shook his head. “A weight I have shouldered all my life.”

“Duro does not ease burden?”

Agron met my gaze with a sad smile. “He does. He provides purpose and position.” In reply to my uncomprehending frown, he explained, “After Duro grew into manhood -- at celebration for his coming-of-age -- a contest was held. As our father’s son, Duro would need a man to stand with him. It is a lifelong position. One which carries much honor and is coveted by warriors. I defeated all challengers in fair combat witnessed by our people to become Liebgarde of my father’s heir.”

Liebgarde. I mouthed the word, calling upon my yet limited knowledge of German tongue to unravel the meaning: that which protects what is held dear and beloved.

“I stand between Duro and harm,” Agron stated with quiet conviction, “until my final breath.”

Suddenly, moments long past snapped into sharp focus and held new meaning:

Our first meeting -- Agron’s arm shooting out and hand splayed upon Duro’s chest, halting him from setting foot within ludus cage until Agron had assessed the unknown house slave in their midst.

Agron’s spear throw in arena, opponent slain from back when his brother’s life had been threatened.

Agron’s fury at being ordered to fight separately upon the sands.

Agron’s timely intervention whenever Glaber’s men had noticed Duro’s challenging glare.

Agron’s acquiescence to my wish that he and Duro continue on to Vesuvius while I saw to more perilous venture of returning house slaves to Rome’s embrace.

All this time, I had assumed Agron had acted as any older brother would, but he was not solely Duro’s older brother. He was charged with preservation of Duro’s life above all other considerations and even at cost of his own.

“Yet…” I objected, “Duro fights in battle alongside you. Your equal.”

“A freedom denied us in our homeland. From earliest memory, I was taught to wield sword and spear on his behalf.”

“Unfair,” I accused.

“Honorable,” he argued. “Our father guided our fates as he thought best.”

Rubbing hands over face, I took pause. Gathered senses. Fuck. “You spoke truth: I would stand a free man east of the Rhine.”

“Yes.”

“You do not.”

“I do not.” Agron drew a shivering breath. “By sacred vow before my people, my sword and my death belong to Duro.” He slid off cot’s edge to crouch at my feet. “I cannot offer you such a pledge. I would, but--I… fuck! Overeager to claim the respect of the tribes, I gave no thought beyond duties I had prepared for.” He bit inside of cheek. “I owe you a vow -- it is fully deserved -- but I can neither face death in your place nor guarantee that I will fall beside you. So stands my greatest regret.”

Fuck the gods. Much of his aggravation in the wake of our visit to Hera’s temple at Metapontum was now explained. That frustration as well as my refusal to allow him to shoulder weight of mutinous thoughts in ludus; Agron would offer whatever he could, however little that might be. His duties held him in choke hold and my fierce independence had robbed him of room to maneuver. Fuck. How had he forgiven these offenses? I truly did stand as his heart. No other explanation could suffice.

But though we were lovers, Agron was Duro’s Liebgarde first and foremost, which meant--

“So stands the purpose which gave you pause in the arena,” I realized, “when I stood beside Oenomaus and Pyrrhus to face execution.”

I had been so pleased by his show of trust in my abilities. Agron had waited for the collapse of seating, spectators’ screams, and billowing flames to cause distraction before he had come to aid. Pause taken not out of confidence in me but because he was not permitted to engage overwhelming risk on behalf of anyone other than his father’s heir. Had he been free to do as he liked, Agron would have come to aid at Oenomaus’ opening blow.

“Apologies,” Agron choked.

“What other duties might be demanded of you?” I inquired. Of course he would reside with Duro in his rooms, ever close at hand, but--“You will marry to ensure political alliance? Your children fated to guard Duro’s?” Just as a slave of Rome doomed his sons and daughters to a life of service?

“No!” Agron rasped. “Fuck. No. My value lies with sword in hand only. I have no wife or child and hold no intent toward either.” He lifted a hand toward me, but took pause and lowered it again. “I face death for Duro, but for you I would draw breath… Nasir, my heart beats for _****you.”****_

As mine did for him. I loved this man.

This man, a warrior shackled by lifelong charge.

I stood. Mumbled: “I would… a moment. Please.”

Agron pushed to his feet slowly. He passed my discarded sword belt to me, pressing it into my hands.

Only this morning, such a gesture would have warmed heart, now it shocked breath from lungs. Heat stung my eyes at this simple proof that he had spoken true: my lover could not promise to protect me. I stood charged with protecting myself. Regardless of my preference on the matter, Agron should be permitted freedom to _**offer.**_

Unfairness rankled. Seared. Punctured flesh as a thousand needles letting blood.

I accepted weapon, careful to prevent our skin from touching. Agron watched in thick silence as I buckled blade in place, and then I ducked outside into the night air.

I held no destination in mind and merely wandered camp.

Naevia sat with Crixus as Rhaskos bellowed a new song, arm slung over an equally merry warrior whose face I had not seen before. Perhaps one of Gordianus’ men.

Castus sat with Adal and Vertiscus, laughing and trading jests.

Libo dozed at base of distant tree, horses idly nosing the scraggly grass within makeshift corral.

Salaminias and a young woman -- a Greek from Metapontum -- locked in heated embrace.

Oruros and Demetrias patrolled the cluster of sleeping Syrian children.

Nolan, Sysia, and their mother lying side by side beneath the stars.

Shadows moving within Spartacus’ tent and Mira’s soft, approving moan.

Rabanus drank and laughed with Sanus, Gannicus, and Sibyl.

Leviticus and Litaviccus engaged in brotherly argument.

Chadara tilted cheek against Donar’s shoulder as he quarreled jovially with Totus.

“Ah, army-of-giants-Nasir!”

I turned and summoned a smile for Lugo. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Victory, eh?” He eyed my expression. “Such a face Nasir make!”

I could conjure no excuse.

Lugo slapped my shoulder. “Agron stands as cause? Bah!” he continued absent pause for my reply. “Nasir will allow Lugo opportunity to win giant smile, yes?”

I rolled my eyes, a weak grin tugging at my lips. “You favor cunt, German.”

“And Nasir would have cock, so my Syrian brother shares not my women.” He shook his head with mock dejection.

I thumped his chest. “Where stand these women, brother?”

He gestured toward distant campfire where two giggling females enjoyed what appeared to be Vertiscus’ attempts to persuade Adal to wrestle. Castus yet sat among them. The Numidian’s gaze flicked my way, but I was grateful when he made no move to approach.

“Do you go north?” I asked Lugo.

He sighed. “For honor and kin.”

“A theme I find increasingly familiar.”

The man took pause. Reassessed my slumped shoulders. “And Nasir?”

“North,” I answered absent hesitation. Of course I would go over the Alps. I would see these people to freedom in defiance of Rome. I would bleed the fucking Republic of its pride. A blow as devastating as defeat upon field of battle.

I only wished I had been hale enough to fight alongside my brothers against the combined consular forces.

Lugo chuckled. “Nasir worry no Romans to kill, eh? Lugo find some east of the Rhine for your spear.”

“Yes,” I agreed on a laugh. “We will find more. Of a certainty.”

With that, the man turned away satisfied.

“Lugo, pause a moment,” I entreated, calling him back. “What do you know of the Liebgarde custom?”

Oddly, he did not appear surprised by my inquiry. Nor did he direct me to either Agron or Duro for explanation.

Curling a brawny arm over my uninjured shoulder, he invited me to sit and drink from his wine skin. I accepted; if I must make payment by imbibing unwatered and unsweetened wine, so be it. I took a sip, baring teeth at its sour strength. I passed the skin back to Lugo’s hand and he gulped a large mouthful as though it were clear, cool, refreshing water.

“Liebgarde,” the man rumbled. “Ja, I will tell you a tale,” Lugo declared, now using German words.

“A tale?” I replied, confused.

“It is our way,” Lugo confirmed with an easy shrug. “Words are sweeter when sung.”

To my shock, that was precisely what the man did. He did not tunelessly shout to the heavens as Rhaskos was prone to do. Rather, he hummed a solemn lullaby of a man called--

“Dankrad was wise, thoughtful and brave,

“His people sought him for counsel

“And followed his ways.

“Swiftly word spread. The tribes heard tell

“Of this man who craved

“Neither land of meadow nor dell

“Desired neither livestock nor slaves.

“He merely spoke and lived well

“And in exchange, people gave

“This man respect in all things.

“But neighbor tribes envied

“And challenge would bring,

“So Dankrad’s people made plea:

“An honorable man must guard their king!

“To this good end, a contest decreed

“And of each man present, I shall not sing

“But tell of Isebrand. He did succeed

“To prove himself worthy and pure of heart.

“A warrior who held no equal in rank.

“With sword and spear, he stood stalwart.

“With aim true and words frank

“Misfortune did thwart.

“To him, Dankrad offered thanks

“And his people gladly took part.

“In the long reign of Dankrad,

“Much honor and happiness did stand

“Due to the efforts of good Isebrand!”

I gawped as Lugo indulged in another swig of wine. “You do not sing of Roman ways,” I at last spoke and he boomed a laugh across celebration.

“Backward Roman fucks!” He shook his head. “One man commands all -- a drop of piss in the sea! Bah! It is the people who gift loyalty to one man -- that is our way.” He held the wine skin toward me, but I gently declined. Lugo presented summary: “Liebgarde stands for all of us, protects the man who earns our deepest respect and guides our people. Only fools and villains show no respect for Liebgarde.”

“But… Liebgarde,” I murmured, frowning with confusion. “Liebgarde are not free.”

Lugo chuckled and clapped a hand upon my hale shoulder. “Ha! You will see. There are things of greater worth than freedom.”

I nodded slowly. True meaning was yet concealed within a frustrating mist to my mind, but I doubted additional words would clear the haze.

“Gratitude, Lugo,” I spoke in common tongue.

“Nasir not yet understand,” he assessed astutely, now choosing Latin words. He stood. “Words Lugo speak sound strange to Roman ears.”

A valid point: my thinking was yet molded by the logic of this land. Beyond the Alps lay a different truth. “I open eyes and ears,” I resolved, “and endeavor to set aside Roman ways.”

A daunting task, but the alternatives were unbearable: I would neither remove myself from Agron’s side nor cling with miserable stubbornness to Roman customs. A new life awaited east of the Rhine. I would honor my brothers by embracing it.

With a hearty salute, Lugo shuffled into the milling crowd toward his women. I heard him call out boisterously. Perhaps with arms spread wide in anticipation of warm welcome.

I rose and returned to tent.

Peering through parted fabric, I found Agron once again seated upon cot, still fully clothed and with head braced in hands. I had never seen him appear so forlorn.

He lifted gaze at the soft _****shuff!****_ of my entrance, visibly bracing himself for verdict. Could I accept the choice he had made long before our paths crossed? Could I stand proud of him and banish resentment from thoughts? Could I allow him to give his life for the sake of his brother’s should that sacrifice one day become necessity?

As I crossed the distance between us, I unbuckled belt and dropped sword to ground beside bed. I then reached out, pressing his shoulders back and making room to seat myself upon lap. I kissed him -- slow and chaste -- as his hands hovered, barely brushing my shoulders, prepared to steady me should my balance wobble.

In reply to his searching gaze, I spoke: “I stand with you.”

Agron exhaled slowly, caressing me closer and tilting his brow against mine. “You will find our ways as nonsensical as Duro finds Rome’s,” he warned.

“Yes,” I concurred, “but… the customs which shaped you -- much time may be required for me to understand, but by virtue of knowing both you and Duro, I hold respect for the ways of your people.”

“Our people,” Agron insisted, snuggling closer.

I chided, “I am too dark of skin to pass for a German.”

“You are a warrior.” He spoke the words as though no other virtue would stand worthy of a German’s consideration. Well, by the autumn equinox, perhaps I would see evidence of this claim with my own eyes.

Tonight, however, I bathed with my lover to the muffled sounds of encampment and wine-aided celebration. Both of us yet bare and skin damp, Agron nudged me down upon our cot with reverent kisses, and took me into his oil-slicked heat. My spine arched, pressing wound hard against blanket, and I hissed. Agron eased the pain back with caressing hands and the pleasure was all the more potent for it.

He had spoken truth at Vesuvius: no joy exists absent pain.

Just as I had sought to banish the latter from his form, he urged both sting and throb to cede dominion and transform into mere echo of memory.

His hips pressed-rocked-rubbed against mine in rhythm absent final aim. Here and now, there were no duties between us. My heart ached when I thought of rushed interludes and moments interrupted by duty east of the Rhine.

But not here.

Hitching gasps.

Leisurely roving hand.

Agron caught my fingers and pressed palm against his pounding heart.

He had never anticipated finding love. Even Duro had assumed his interest in me a playful distraction within dreary ludus. I had certainly never dared to dream a man of his qualities willingly in my arms. This was -- we were -- unexpected, yes, but well worth fighting for.

Agron lifted my hand and pressed kiss to palm. I petted his cheek, neck, chest, cock. He groaned at each teasing caress, tilting his hips to press himself toward greater pleasure. Slick pace quickened until, with jaw slack and gaze blinded, he released upon my chest and belly in mewling whimpers.

“Nasir,” he mouthed, bowing forward, bracing himself upon trembling arms as I stroked his back. After a time, he caught his breath, shifted against my throbbing arousal, and groaned. I did not ask if he would have more; I offered and he accepted, resuming gentle, lazy thrusts, our bodies connecting deep and primal. Enacting a truth more ancient than any vow of honor.

Night slowly deepened into silence, but we paid no heed to passage of time. I flicked his peaked nipples and scratched at his scruff. His second release shuddered through his big body on a shiver as my callused fingertips traced the valley below tailbone. The pleasure rode him, long and relentless, and I braced heels against bed, rolling up and into him, prolonging glorious torment as his seed spilled in gentle spurts, one after the other. Again and again.

He slumped forward, pressing sweaty brow to my stubbled cheek, wheezing breath roaring past my ear. I curled arm across his shoulders, holding him close.

“I would make demand, German,” I teased, nipping at his ear.

“Speak it,” he whispered, voice gruff with weakness, “and I shall see it done.”

“Sit up,” I requested, noting the brief wince as he shifted against my cock, “and lie beside me.”

He smiled and then kissed me before lifting himself carefully away. I panted at the feel of his heat caressing cock in long, relentless slide. And then I was surrounded by hot flesh and long limbs, tucked against his chest as his oiled hand curled around me, calluses chafing and burning -- his lips nipping and tugging at my ear and neck, his soft moans of encouragement against hair and scalp.

Gentle. This man, so fucking gentle. “I would--have you--wild,” I hissed and his movements sped, his teeth pressed against pulse, his form braced mine as I thrashed toward release.

I surrendered with a shout muffled by Agron’s lips, helpless to resist the heat that scattered me in all directions like shimmering mist.

Ah, gods. Agron…

I nuzzled against his arm, sighed--

And opened my eyes to daylight soaking through fabric weave.

From his slow, calm breaths, Agron yet slept curled around me and I knew a moment of peace unlike anything in memory. Perhaps it was so strongly felt because I appreciated the rarity of this moment. How many would we enjoy in the days, weeks, months to come? Should our venture through the Alps be successful and journey to Agron’s homeland achieved, how often would my lover and I have occasion to love one another in seclusion and wake at our leisure?

I ignored the dull ache of bed-bound muscles, simmering burn of wound, and insistent throb of bladder. I focused upon the warmth radiating from Agron’s skin, reveled in the fact that he lived and pressed close.

When he shifted, nosed into the spilled strands of my hair on a long inhalation, my smile was ready.

His lashes fluttered and lips curled with intimate memory, his changeable eyes aglow.

I combed fingers through his hair. “Cease your dawdling, German,” I teased. “Your lover would set eyes upon verdant hills and forests east of the Rhine.”

“Hm,” he replied, thumbing my chin. “Patience will be rewarded.”

With a chaste kiss upon lips, we rose. Washed. Dressed. Faced the new day.

Farewells awaited.

Spartacus had not bothered to collapse the praetor’s tent that he and Mira had used. “We travel light and swift,” he reminded the warriors who made preparations. “We hunt or take villas as we move south.”

Agron waited for the Thracian to turn toward him, and I cast gaze in the direction of Crixus’ shouted instructions. Permitting my lover a moment alone with our friend, I sought the Undefeated Gaul and his woman.

“Naevia,” I greeted and gestured to the quiver caught upon armor’s buckles. “Might I offer assistance?”

“Gratitude,” she answered and I sorted her armament, settling it comfortably.

“You are dressed for war against the gods themselves,” I approved.

She embraced me, mindful of wounded shoulder and arm yet in sling. “I fear you claim the greater challenge.”

Perhaps I did. “Take pity on your Gaul and permit him moments of stupidity. He acts out of love.”

She laughed. “You and Duro echo one another.”

“He offers sound advice,” I retorted. “Upon occasion.”

Naevia and I shared a smile. “Gratitude, Nasir. You saved my life.” Her expression turned sharp with vicious glee. “And thus cost many Romans theirs.”

“I know of none who rival your strength.” Clasping her hand in mine, I bid, “Take what vengeance you would have. Kill many Romans. And love your Gaul.”

Her smile softened as she looked toward her lover. “I shall take excellent care of him.”

Sensing that we spoke of him, Crixus spared us a glance and then promptly drew near, arm extended to me. I clasped it tight. Had my flesh still carried the brand of our Brotherhood, it would have pressed against his.

“Until our paths cross again,” I spoke solemnly.

His lips twitched into a brief grin. “By which time, all of Germania will have been made to heel at your command.”

I chuckled. “Indeed. I leave the fate of Rome in your hands.”

Rhaskos hailed me before I could turn away and offered arm. “You are yet welcome at celebration, little man.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I scolded, beaming. “Else you’ll not be welcome at mine.”

Leviticus and Vitus next stepped into my path to wish me good fortune.

Acer and I exchanged smirks that bordered on sneers.

Lysandros clasped me close as a brother. “We became titans,” he remarked, awed. “I now go forth and prove it to Rome.”

Vertiscus, Saxa, and Totus slapped my shoulder and promised to entertain me with word of their victories. I promised not to allow myself too much jealousy upon hearing their exploits.

Mira spared a moment to lament, “I regret not breaking words with you more often.”

“And I you. But in truth, you lend needful counsel to a man who stands in greater need. Spartacus shows uncommonly good sense to hold you in esteem.”

We embraced, but offered no words of farewell; I had never known Mira to tolerate the sentiment.

Lydon, Fortis, Litaviccus, and Ortius: I wished them many victories.

Rabanus informed: “I stand proud and pleased to not have thrown your ass over cliff’s edge.”

I laughed.

“Hm, you will live,” the Veteran assessed gruffly, to which I replied: “And you will fuck Roman gods.” He was gleeful at the prospect.

“I send Salaminias to accompany you,” Libo explained, “and choose my end.”

I did not remind the old horsemaster that I would gladly see him over the Alps. He knew well that I would should he have any inclination to escape Roman soil. Freedom of choice. This man claimed his.

Gordianus embraced me in front of his own men, bellowing Gallic words that caused a rousing cheer before speaking in confidence to me in common tongue, “I thank the gods my wife’s handiwork found its way into your grasp. That day, I stepped out upon the sands in acceptance of my fate.”

“No,” I argued. “You accepted death. You now embrace fate.”

Amused, the former gladiator replied, “Fare thee well, Syrian.” He held out his arm one last time. “May fortune favor you among those idiot Germans.”

I prayed it would.

As I prayed for Spartacus’ success.

Warriors upon horseback trotted through the camp, making for the forested hills and cover of trees, but Spartacus did not lead them. He lingered, gaze roving in search. Sighting me, he dismounted and made swift approach.

“Nasir. I would not depart absent breaking words.”

“Break them,” I invited, concealing all sorrow behind my grin. “Rome awaits.”

He nodded once, amusement dancing in his eyes. But then he sobered, “Hold you any expectation of what lies beyond the Alps for you?”

Ah, I would miss this man’s delicate manner of phrase. “Yes. Agron imparted a measure of truth. I am aware of my brothers’ standing east of the Rhine.”

Spartacus placed hand upon my shoulder. “More than a year will have passed by the time you reach destination, but Gordianus and his men give hope that even more warriors would join our efforts were they shown the way.”

I blinked. Swallowed.

Fuck the gods.

“I hold none of you to obligation,” the Thracian assured, “but when I spoke of opportunity to witness Rome in flames…”

“You spoke of my return among an army of Germans.”

“Among? Certainly. Leading them?” Spartacus grinned. “I do not doubt you capable.”

“I can make no promise,” I hedged.

“I carry no expectation.” His grip slid from shoulder and curled upon my forearm. He nodded farewell and I -- words tangling and swelling within throat -- merely returned it.

I watched as he returned to saddle and placed heels to horse’s flank. Spartacus departed absent pause to see to charge: he remained in Rome to draw the attention of the Senate while those seeking freedom found safety.

He would fight while my Germans and I raised an army. How much time would be required to assess feasibility of that ambition, I did not know. Unless Agron’s father currently held intent to join Spartacus’ war upon Rome -- unless an army stood at the ready to warmly greet our arrival…

My mind raced with possibilities and potential obstacles but… perhaps. Perhaps I would one day stand beside my friend Spartacus again. Perhaps.

In the meantime, his efforts would aid our venture. His intent to wrest power from Rome a happy consequence of success.

I startled as a slender arm looped over my waist. “Nasir!” Chadara trilled, scolding me for my distraction. “Come and take morning meal before Donar devours your portion as well.”

I snorted, returning friendly embrace. “He would claim it in exchange for what services?”

Chadara blushed.

I bumped her hip with mine. “Ah ha. German tongue is pleasing, is it not?”

“Hush, you!”

Agron welcomed me, lifting a portion of gruel from the empty seat at his side and holding it out in offering. As I passed Duro, I flicked his unpierced ear in irreverent greeting.

He choked on the overlarge bite within mouth. “You yet--fucking--Agron you yet tell our Syrian brother nothing?”

Agron opened mouth, brows drawing together in irritation.

“Agron,” I called, and he attended me with gaze. With mock severity, I challenged, “You withhold needful information?”

His apprehension was banished by soft smile. “You know all matters of importance,” he declared. “With additional explanation readily given as opportunity arises.”

I accepted meal and sat, my thigh brushing Agron’s.

Duro watched us with a growing grin until he crowed, “Ha! I fucking told you Nasir’s arms would yet open to you!”

“Duro, close fucking mouth.”

I glanced across our gathering toward Aurelia, wondering…

When her attention left Duro and found me, I counted no questions in her gaze. Ah. It appeared I was not the only one in whom these half-brothers placed trust.

Stirring my portion, I examined my own lack of outrage at being excluded from their secrets for so long. Agron had clearly expected harsh reaction.

My lover’s elbow bumped mine in question and I met his gaze unflinching. Offered soft words: “You now know my motives for not speaking of my role in the magistrate’s fate until the fall of ludus?”

His expression twitched with sudden understanding: the consequence of such a thing accidentally becoming known by our enemies would have been dire indeed. Risk reaching far beyond the man who had borne weight of secret. “Yes,” he replied, ducked low for a brief kiss, and we returned to meal.

Castus and Donar sniped at each other while we ate.

Duro sent Janus on inconsequential errands to release a measure of the boy’s boundless energy.

Lugo called for morning drills to begin. Calius, Tilius, Moritus, Nolan, Sysia, and Santos stood among those assembled.

Sanus jovially heckled Lugo from distant meal fire.

Gannicus ignored the Cilician’s jibes as Sibyl deftly swapped the bandages upon Oenomaus’ mutilated face with freshly laundered replacements.

Simon and Camilla ordered gathered supplies arranged with precision in carts.

Euclid commanded staff to take rest while opportunity presented.

Salaminias methodically inspected the hooves of each horse.

Adal was already directing my little monsters in emptying tents of supplies and collapsing the structures. Theleda and Thelmenis worked in concert.

At that moment, I recalled Nileus. I glanced around the camp, even standing to survey those in the distance, but caught no sight of him. The man who had twice come to aid -- I would have broken words with him once more.

Before Agron could ask after the source of my distraction, I resumed seat, lecturing myself to be grateful that I had managed to offer the man my arm in gratitude. We were not fated to be friends, but I ought to be content that we had, however briefly, stood as allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While many tribes are repeatedly recorded on several different maps of ancient Germania, often their respective locations and landholdings appear to vary with time. I would love to interpret this discrepancy as meaning there was a lot of confusion during ancient Roman times regarding the people who lived east of the Rhine.
> 
> Spring-boarding off of that idea is this “what if” scenario in APMF where the Germanic tribes actually do have some organization/cooperation things going on TOTALLY UNBEKNOWNST TO ROME (which would view their egalitarian society as being rampantly chaotic and inefficient).
> 
> SIDE NOTE: It’s possible that the term “German” was the name of one small tribe and it was Julius Caesar who eventually used the term “the Germanic peoples” to refer to all the tribes east of the Rhine. (There may have been a fair amount of exaggeration on Caesar’s part in order to rally the Senate to see these people as potential invaders.)
> 
> Liebgarde: OK, what if (in the TV show) when Agron tells Nasir that there’s no life for him beyond the mountains, what if what he meant that literally? What if Agron believes that he has nothing to return to because his brother -- their father’s heir and the person Agron was supposed to protect with his life -- is dead? What if Agron thinks he can’t go home because he’d had one job to do (i.e. keep Duro alive) and he’d failed? This brainwave hit waaaay back when I was writing Vesuvius (and simultaneously prepping updates for The Arena) and I just went, “OMG YES. DURO IS HEIR TO THEIR FATHER’S LEGACY AND AGRON IS HIS SWORN BODYGUARD-FOR-LIFE. THIS IS HOW I SHALL DO THE THINGS.” The details were sorted out later.
> 
> The term Liebgarde is of my invention. I don’t know of any such position or word in ancient Germania.
> 
> BUT! Now we know why Agron gets so torn up whenever he has to choose between standing with Duro and standing with Nasir because he has NO CHOICE and yet Nasir does. Back in Chapter 3 of this installment, Nasir chose to meet the messenger from Gallia alone and it reminded Agron of that hard truth. And, honestly, it was a risky situation to begin with because what if it was all Roman trickery? Agron MUST protect Duro. End of story. (And a very unpleasant reality check was had.)
> 
> The Roman author Tacitus (whose works are the primary source we have on ancient Germanic tribes) wrote about how tribal chieftains and generals had their own inner circle of warriors who followed them. I imagine there was a fair bit of competition among warriors (especially young warriors) who were eager to make a name for themselves. This was the starting point for my invention of the Liebgarde custom. From there, I consider Norse mythology and Beowulf to help build a society that had produced Agron and Duro.
> 
> I do not know anything about Germanic songs or poetry. So don’t blame Lugo if his song sucks, yeah? He’s attempting to explain the anthropological term “big man” to someone who has only ever known a hierarchical society. If you’re unfamiliar with the concept, a big man is a leader who is respected by the members of the community, leads by example, and resolves disputes with fairness. He does not collect taxes or demand tribute or mete out punishments. There is no formal election or promotion to office. His position is honorary and will be revoked if he loses the confidence of the people or abuses his status. FYI, I plan to explore this in detail in a future installment called “Germania” -- as Nasir learns the culture, so will you.
> 
> In reading Tacitus’ works discussing Germanic tribes, I took a lot of the information with a grain of salt and a lot of side-eyeing, but it appears that some details are supported by the archaeological record. I’ll try to keep track of what I invent versus what appears to be supported fact. If I drop the ball, ask me, m’kay?
> 
> Regarding Nileus, rest assured, I’m not done with him yet.


	8. Bonds of Brotherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes (referenced Duro/Aurelia), ANGST (tissues may be needed)
> 
> Music rec: “Hurricane” by Fleurie (for Nasir) & “Still Here” by Digital Daggers (for Nileus)

Giggles.

A man’s and woman’s. A gasp. A soft groan. A huff of breath. A German curse muffled by either cloth or flesh.

I turned away from the tent Aurelia and Duro occupied alone, biting back a smile brimming with secrets. I left them undisturbed.

Agron arched a brow in expectation as I returned to meal fire absent our young brother.

Clearing my throat, I served myself a portion of porridge, muttering at the mush: “Duro possesses hearty appetite satisfied not by food.”

Agron snorted, cupped the opposite side of my head and pressed a kiss to nearest temple. “I hold his serving lest we be forced to endure his whining ‘til dusk.”

“How fortunate Duro is to have such a thoughtful older brother.” Indeed, Agron’s consideration never ceased to surprise me. Though he preferred to leave the task of riding alongside the caravan to either Gannicus or Correus, who were more than happy to encourage stragglers, Agron was the first to volunteer to shoulder weight or assist with stuck wagon wheel or raise a tent in place of hands too exhausted to see to task at day’s end.

Already two days into our march northward and the sheer amount of energy he expended in aid of those who struggled toward freedom awed me.

A passion-fueled feminine shriek pierced the muted sounds of morning.

Janus clapped his hands and giggled, dodging the spoonful Chadara sought to deposit in his mouth. Donar’s chuckle was filthy and wholly at odds with the baby girl dozing in the crook of his left arm.

A low, masculine moan confirmed what all within earshot suspected: Duro and Aurelia were both very much awake and not sleeping in their bed.

Agron rolled his eyes.

My humor faded as I considered what this might mean for my young brother and Varro’s widow once we crossed the Alps and found ourselves east of the Rhine.

“Neither acts in ignorance,” Agron gently chided, sending a knowing look at my frown.

I nodded. “Nor does it stand my charge to confirm intentions.” After all, one morning of intimacy did not a lifelong bond make.

Agron chortled, poking at his porridge. “You shall investigate nonetheless.”

He answered my glare with a wiggle of his brows and I relented: “Should opportunity present.”

This only seemed to cheer Agron all the more.

Duro and Aurelia were the last to take morning meal, smiling and shining with accomplished joy.

“You’ll want to watch your step,” Donar said by way of greeting. “Many strange noises were heard in vicinity of your tent. Only the gods know what beasts lurk these lands.”

Aurelia flushed and accepted the bowl Chadara passed her.

Duro whapped Donar on the back of head. “Strange noises, eh? It comes as no great surprise that you have not heard their like before today.”

Donar growled, eyes narrowing. Chadara visibly crunched a bark of laughter down into belly, flatting lips to smother a grin.

Agron passed Duro the bowl he’d prepared and I watched as Janus babbled at Duro, hanging on our young brother’s knees as he sat snuggled beside Aurelia.

Their close proximity and clear happiness warmed heart and moved spirit… until I caught sight of Castus. He approached our meal fire with two bowls in grasp, pausing upon sight of the food in Duro’s hands.

“Ah, you have already been served, friend,” the Numidian remarked, smiling with full effort.

Duro snorted agreement. “Yes, Mother Agron sees me well fed.”

My lover leveled a forefinger in Duro’s direction. A silent warning. Or a reminder of Agron’s duty as Duro’s Liebgarde.

I came to aid with playful chastisement: “Would that I had such an older brother.”

Duro neither rolled his eyes nor quipped witty rejoinder. Rather, the animation folded in upon his expression and jaw clenched. Mouth tight, he stared at his bowl in silence.

His sudden downturn in mood was only deepened by Janus cooing to his little sister as she fussed and whimpered, waving her little fists with force. When I cast gaze toward Agron, he was frowning at Duro in confusion.

“Castus,” I said, standing. “Let us see if Salaminias has taken meal yet.”

Agron palmed my hip, turning face up so that I might bestow a kiss, which was readily supplied. I combed fingers through his hair and then set foot toward makeshift corral.

I ignored the speculative glances Castus sent my way until we gained distance from gathering. “Your gaze is as a shout.”

His teeth flashed in conjunction with brief smile. “Your Agron does not voice objection to our errand or the fact that you accompany me.”

“Hm.” I could say that Agron trusted my ability to assert myself. I could say that Agron would reluctantly concede that Castus meant me no physical harm. I could say that Agron desired opportunity to speak with his brother and inquire toward disquiet caused by my parting words. All private matters.

Castus chuckled. “Your thoughts make a ruckus that echoes out through ears.”

I shrugged aside his needling. “Enjoy lack of German complaints, Numidian,” I teased.

Castus mused, “Perhaps Agron no longer considers me worthy of effort.”

He had a point. Perhaps the ease with which Agron disregarded him stood the greatest insult of all. I hurried to offer alternate view: “Your initial pursuit of me did not endear you to him. I would call his recent ambivalence progress.”

A puff of breath -- a helpless expulsion of mirth -- escaped Castus.

I added, “Though… your interest in Duro does not go unnoticed.”

“You think me fickle.”

Truthfully, I did not. Who wouldn’t be charmed by my young German brother? In comparison, I was neither especially charismatic nor entertaining. Had I never overheard Agron list my virtues to Numerius, I would yet wonder what had drawn his eye and captured heart.

“I have never known Duro to favor cock,” I informed.

Castus waggled his brows. “Because you once made attempt to gain his attentions?”

“By the gods, no. Never.” Whether Castus believed me or not was irrelevant.

He sighed. “I have never met a man I could love more.”

Ah, fuck. I was duty-bound to ask: “Can you stand as his friend and be satisfied?”

“His happiness is my reward.” Castus summoned a bright smile. “For the man who taught me that friendship in its purest form yet exists in this world of piss and shit -- yes, I count myself fortunate he calls me friend.”

Our gazes met and I felt a moment of certainty that this former pirate did hold some measure of honor and admirable qualities. “By the gods, Castus. Our rebel ways may yet make you a man whose generosity overreaches.”

He laughed at my jest. “Warning well heeded.”

At the corral, Salaminias was happy to accept morning meal. One of the horses trotted over to Castus, demanding attention.

“The beast claims you as his,” I noted with amusement.

Castus stroked the animal’s velvety nose, scratched its forehead, and massaged base of ears gently. “We share an accord.”

A worthy goal in life.

Our return journey was silent due to mouths being occupied with slurping porridge from our respective spoons. I scraped the last of my food from wooden bowl just as familiar meal fire entered view. My friends were just as I’d left them, save that Calius and Tilius now occupied the seats where Agron and Duro had sat.

No doubt Agron had bullied Duro into beginning another day. Motion in the distance -- tents collapsing and people rinsing cooking implements. I did not catch glimpse of my Germans striding through camp, inspecting progress. Perhaps they had prudently decided to piss first. Well, our tent would not see it itself.

Calius offered to assist Donar with packing for the day’s travel. Tilius teased, “And I lend Nasir my longer arms for the same aim.”

“Yes, yes, you are not for the fucking mines today,” I dutifully revived old jest.

We had just collapsed and folded up cot within carpet when Calius burst through tent flap, gasping.

“Romans?” I asked, surging to my feet and reaching for sword at hip.

“No,” the man wheezed, eyes wide with disbelief. “No imminent threat.”

“Yet you stand poised to battle Mars himself,” Tilius observed.

“I--Nasir, have you a brother?”

“My Germans?”

“No, no. In Syria. Had you a brother in Syria?”

My form became as stone. “From whose lips did you learn this?”

“Ah--apologies. When Donar and I arrived at Aurelia’s tent--German words -- Donar gave translation--”

Heavy, running footsteps. A hand at tent flap. Agron ducked within. Calius flinched under the blistering heat of his glare and sour moue. “I will fucking tell him,” my lover snarled. With a jerk of chin, he gestured for Tilius to approach and-- “Fuck off, the both of you.”

Agron snapped fabric shut in their wake with a furious shove. And then he paced across tent threshold, hands digging into his hair.

“Agron,” I prompted and blinked at the sound of a single dry sob.

He stopped, turned and approached slowly, lifting hands to my jaw and pressing brow to mine. He drew a deep breath, pressed a soft kiss to my lips, and spoke: “You stand a free man.”

“As free as you and Duro.”

His lips twitched into a trembling smile. “Our path takes us over the Alps.”

“And mine?”

Agron’s eyes -- a dull, light brown here surrounded by tent drapings of similar color -- shimmered with unshed tears. “Nileus. The mercenary who came to aid you and Spartacus against attack -- he made claim to Duro -- he is your brother.”

I reared back. Blinked. Agron’s thumbs caressed my cheeks in soothing motions, but I barely heeded the touch. “He voiced this claim to Duro?” I stuttered.

With roll of jaw, Agron grinned miserably. “Opportunity presented for inquiry. You and Duro are true brothers in this regard.”

In this regard. In this-- “Duro interrogated Nileus?”

“On his intentions toward you. The night before our numbers divided.”

“Nileus,” I gasped. “Claimed he is…”

“Claimed he has traveled Rome for many years in search of his brother Nasir.”

I shook my head, my thoughts racing.

Agron attended me with his gaze, studying my every thought in silence as it pushed at my expression:

My brother lived. A mercenary. Although, how else would a lone man who carried not even a drop of Roman blood within veins earn the coin required to scour the Republic, seeking lost kin? Seeking a slave boy named Nasir.

The Syrian Nasir. My growing fame carried from mouth to ear beyond Capua: by this method, he very likely may have heard my name and sought me out. Joined Spartacus’ army. Made inquiries. Come to aid when needed.

Nileus, my ally. He had been watching me, both in battle and between conflicts. For how long? The gaze I had felt in Metapontum -- his? Had he watched over me out of brotherly duty?

Were we brothers? By what means was he certain? By what fucking means did he claim kinship? By what fucking reasoning did he deny me truth?

“Where is he? Where is Nileus now?” I asked roughly, though I dreaded I already knew the answer.

Agron gave confirmation: “He fights in Spartacus’ ranks.”

Fuck.

Fuck!

I held no memory of my movements between tent and corral, but I heard myself shout for a horse to be readied and Salaminias rushed to comply.

A touch upon my uninjured shoulder. Agron crouched into my line of sight. “We accompany.”

“No. Your path is set. Your place is at Duro’s side.”

“Our place,” Duro interjected, with a mighty frown, “is with each other.”

I lunged toward him, shoving him back with both hands, ignoring the protest of wound. “You fucking held tongue when you knew of--you selfish fuck! This was not your secret to keep!”

“I protected Agron!”

“You are not his Liebgarde!”

“I am his brother! And you are his heart! And we are fucking going with you!”

Fuck. “So be it.” I would not spare the time for further argument.

“I join you,” Castus quietly insisted. In response to my scowl, he merely lifted chin. Stubborn fucking Numidian.

Agron was already catching a horse for himself and Duro assembling tack. Castus’ mount came with a soft cluck of tongue. I suspected Salaminias of deliberately slowing progress to prevent me from gaining head start.

Regardless, the noon sun cast our shadows upon previous encampment site where paths had diverged. I took no pause for rest and turned mount in the direction Spartacus had ridden.

One, two, three… We reached the fourth decimated and recently abandoned villa just after night fall.

My horse’s sides heaved, truly winded despite its fitness. Sweat had frothed upon its hide and the beast refused to budge from water cache. I was too spent to wrestle. The animal could drink ‘til it burst.

Castus slapped the horse’s hind quarters, startling the animal into raising its head. Catching the reins, the Numidian told, “I take first watch.” He nodded me toward the destroyed atrium where Agron and Duro undoubtedly awaited.

“I have no words to break with either of them.”

“Then take rest instead.”

I huffed, but surrendered both horse and excuse to remain out-of-doors. As I silently gained villa portico, a low voice reached my ears, German words. Agron’s.

“--no right to call yourself Nasir’s brother.”

“You think I do not know that? I fucked up. Fuck. I am sorry.”

“Tell that to Nasir.”

“He will not listen.”

Agron sighed. “Mayhap if you told why.”

“Many reasons, but none standing out or apart except… fuck. I thought he was happy. With us. We’re each of us ten times the brother Nileus could ever be.”

“Which makes this failure ten times worse.”

“Worse than being taken and sold in fucking Roman slave market?”

“Yes.”

“Agron--”

“No, we are done discussing this. If Nasir chooses to follow Spartacus, we abide by his decision.”

“No. I’ll not lose two bothers.”

“Fucking moron. I follow you over the Alps.”

“Not if I do not go.”

“Duro--”

Rubbing hands briskly over face, I schooled features and entered villa. “Close fucking mouths and sleep,” I barked, ignoring how each man’s spine straightened. I breezed past where they sat at peristylium’s edge, my intent to investigate pantry, cellar, and bath. Given that Spartacus’ army had recently passed this way, I held no great hopes for procuring comforts which had been overlooked.

“Nasir,” Duro called, standing slowly, wincing. “Pause a moment.”

I felt no sympathy at the sight of his physical discomfort. I had not requested his presence. Neither his nor Agron’s. If they suffered from time spent in saddle, it was no less than what they had earned.

As expected, I found no readily consumable food left behind. Chewing fresh herbs untrampled beneath raiders’ feet, I bathed. Only perfumed oil remained upon shelf and the scent was nearly unbearable to my senses.

I wept. I wept for broken trust and pieces of memories. I wept for moments forgotten and time lost. I wept for the brothers who called me Nasir.

When Castus sat down beside me, I wiped misery from face and permitted him use of villa bath. I held no desire for slick words or charming company. Exiting the room, I took pause, blinking at Agron’s determined approach. Seeing me, he stopped abruptly, thunderous expression lifting like a sunrise. A ray of hope in his eyes.

Yet, the longer I stared at him in silence, the more distressed and resolute he became until--

“You must go with Duro. Home. Beyond the Alps,” I commanded in wavering tone.

Agron shook his head.

I lifted a hand. “I’ll not stand -- again -- as reason for you both to risk your lives fighting Romans.”

“Again?” Agron echoed, confused.

“Did you not feel you owed me that,” I questioned imperiously, “when I took sword in side for your brother?”

He flinched. “No.”

“Ha!” I laughed up at corridor awning. “So, in addition to withholding knowledge, Duro has also spoken lies.”

“I know not what was said, but Duro and I remained in Rome both out of love for you--” His voice broke upon being made sole recipient of my glare. “--and out of duty and honor and homeland.”

“You speak nonsense.”

“A moment more,” he begged. “In private?”

I glanced over shoulder. Castus’ shadow flickered across bathroom wall in faint lamp light. Turning back to Agron, I nodded.

“Duro stands guard at gate,” Agron volunteered, gesturing me toward an alcove room. A place that would not echo our words. I had taught him well.

Additionally, he made no attempt to touch. Demonstrated no assumption that I would welcome him as my lover. Fuck. How was it this man heeded me so well?

Drawing a breath, Agron spoke: “Our father’s oldest son was killed in battle. At age of eighteen years. Fearing similar outcome, he held Duro close to hearth until his twentieth year, long after he’d become a man by our people’s reckoning.”

Oddly, that explained much. Duro’s innocence and irreverence toward danger. Between his father’s efforts to protect him and Agron’s duty to stand guard, Duro had always known safety.

Agron said, “Though Duro holds many good qualities, warriors will not heed the will of a man untested in battle. That was how we came to be captured and sold in Rome. Battle lost.” Agron paused long enough to lock-and-release jaw and then draw calming breath. “To return to our father absent victory would condemn Duro to the life of a simple farmer and our father’s line ended.”

“This is the honor you speak of? You father’s regard and legacy?”

“No. Yes. We followed Spartacus and fought for sake of homeland, and yes, we honor our father by besting Roman armies, but absent own name ringing in tales of glory--” Agron’s hands fisted. “Duro would forfeit the right to rule. Tribes would battle one another for position.” Agron dared a step closer. “I speak of war. Should the respect afforded our father be revoked due to disappointment with his sons…” He shrugged helplessly. “No life would await us beyond the Alps.”

Agron’s father truly stood a giant among the tribes if there loomed such a great and terrible distance his sons might fall. Ruefully, I admitted that Duro could not have spoken of this at Metapontum absent revealing his birthright so far from possibility of return to homeland. I could not recall our heated exchange at long distant celebration with clarity, but at the very least Duro had allowed me to make extreme assumption.

But... had I not done the same to him and Agron within ludus for the sake of their welfare? Of course I had. My Germans. My brothers. The men who had taught me to be a free man.

Yet they were not.

I slumped against wall at back. “Goatfuck,” I summarized.

Agron chortled, equally as heartbroken and helpless as I felt. “I make no request for forgiveness on Duro’s behalf. Nor seek promises from your lips. But I would hold you. If you permit me.”

He waited, breath bated, as I searched myself. Yes, I was furious with Duro, but what evidence did I have that Agron had betrayed me? None. He’d rushed after Calius and insisted on breaking fateful words with me himself. I recalled the tremor of his desperate touch. Fear.

No matter what he had or had not done, I would never wish a moment of fear upon this man. My brother. My lover. I would do more than permit his embrace, I would seek it.

I stepped into his arms and he wrapped himself around me, breathing wetly against my cheek despite the fact that I certainly stank of Roman perfume. We did not leave that barren room ‘til dawn, taking rest upon hard stone, Agron’s chest a warm barrier between my form and cold wall.

Just as we had lain in ludus cage long ago. In the beginning.

We choked down unsalted lentil stew that had been left to soak all night. The long preparation time required for dried beans had made this the only food item not claimed by rebel hands. We continued south in silence, following the churned earth and Roman farms ruined in the wake of swift army.

As night fell, flames in the distance drew us to another villa. This one was in the midst of being taken. We waited in darkness until the unmistakable sounds of ransacking and laughter were heard, then called at the gate.

A Gaul from the Pompeii ludus by name of Brictius and his woman Verenda, a formidable former gladiatrix, had led the charge and and claimed the spoils. He shook his shaved head when I asked if a Syrian called Nileus was present.

He pointed us south, absent offer of hospitality.

“Fucking Gaul,” Duro muttered darkly. His belly rumbled and he hunched down in saddle.

A short ride brought us to the next villa. Celebration was underway and Gordianus’ nephew invited us to partake of refreshment. We gratefully claimed portions from the cellar and continued on.

Saxa and Totus greeted us at the following Roman settlement, but neither could say where they had last seen Nileus. Saxa pressed a full wine skin into my grasp. “For Gannicus.”

I answered her strained smile with an attempt at levity: “He must make it last ‘til you bring more beyond the Alps and tell of your victory over Rome.”

Her sudden and boisterous hug jarred wounded shoulder, but I made no complaint.

More villas claimed by rebels. We took pause to inquire at each.

Nearing midnight, the trail led us to the face of a brother. Ortius smirked at Duro and Agron’s visible agony at being astride for so many hard-ridden leagues, and told: “You will find him in foothills to the east. Spartacus makes plan to take the city of Aseulum.”

“Gratitude, brother,” I spoke.

“You hold quarrel?” he inquired with curiosity.

“A matter unresolved.”

“Will it wait ‘til dawn? Or do you ride on?”

“Is their position much further?”

It was not. We rode on until hailed by a scout. I did not doubt that several men held position at back, bows lifted and arrows nocked.

I gave our names and permitted the watchman to approach, confirming our identities by moonlight.

“Where will I find the Syrian called Nileus?”

“You do not request audience with Spartacus?” He was shocked.

“Even a legend must rest. Should he wish to break words come morning, we will be here. My business with Nileus, however, will not wait.”

The man directed us through the forest toward a small pile of glowing embers. A tent had been raised for assigned patrols to take rest in turns during the night. I spied the figure of a man crouching, illuminated by the orange blush of dying fire. He shot upright at sound of our approach and I glimpsed leather cap, makeshift armor, ferocious scowl.

Did we share that expression, I wondered.

He braced himself for attack, opening mouth to call for reinforcements.

“Let others rest, Nileus,” I spoke firmly, swinging down from my slowing mount. “I would have words with you.”

He straightened slowly, palm yet curved over sword pommel. I heard Castus, Agron, and Duro dismount, but did not remove gaze from the object of my search.

Nileus scanned our group, glaring viciously at Duro. I spared a moment to judge reaction and blinked at the sight of Duro lifting chin, expression hard.

“Are Germans deaf or merely slow of mind?” Nileus growled.

“Immovable,” Duro countered absent hesitation. “Speak your threats, and this time I answer with steel.” Despite aches and pain, Duro stood eager to defend his brothers. As he had in ludus, battling Crixus for the sake of all three of us.

I took a step toward Nileus. “You would threaten--?”

My question cut off by Castus’ grip upon upper arm, wrenching injured shoulder. I hissed.

Nileus bared his teeth at the Numidian.

Castus pleaded in hushed tone: “Venture no closer, Nasir. I suspect this man of vile intent toward you.”

“On what grounds?” Agron would know, bristling toward Nileus.

Glaring briefly at the Syrian, Castus told: “His gaze followed you at Metapontum, unceasing. Were it not for me coming between the two of you at the arena amid chaos following Sedullus’ fall, he would have put sword through back.”

Snarling, Nileus spat: “Cilician fuck! You held sinister designs -- it was you I sought to pry from his fucking shadow. A task I happily see to completion now!”

He drew sword and advanced. I shoved Castus aside, unthinkingly utilizing arm connected to wounded shoulder.

“Fuck!” I muttered, moving between the two men as Agron nudged Castus to stand back. Our ranks closed. Agron on my left. Duro poised upon right. Even now with so much discord yet between us, they stood as my brothers.

Nileus frowned, gifting Duro a cold look. “Return the way you came, and I abandon consequence.”

“What consequence?” I demanded.

Duro replied in deceptively light tone: “A thing of no matter. Any man who calls you his brother would sooner embrace death than permit harm to those you love.”

My hand twitched toward sword--

Nileus’ lowered.

“Nasir’s brother?” Castus bleated, ducking around Duro to gawp at the man I faced.

My Syrian shadow -- my watcher and unexpected ally -- licked lips and muttered, “I had a brother called Nasir. He would be of similar years. That is all the resemblance shared between you.”

“Fucking--” Duro began, furious either on behalf of my pain or at his own for undertaking wasteful venture.

However.

At the feel of Agron’s hand upon my shoulder, I realized my breaths came swift and shallow. I panted. My blood rushed. Sweat upon my palms. Memory echoing in ears.

_****“NASIR!”** ** _

“Again,” I rasped. “Speak my name again.”

Nileus seemed to shrink. He exhaled, shoulders bowing with defeat as his eyes focused upon me. Exhaustion. Apprehension. Agony. With a slow shake of head, he repeated: “Nasir.”

Many years had passed since I had heard my brother call my name. We had been children then, our voices high and bright, but there was something in his tone, some quality that I knew. I felt its truth shiver down spine and tickle fingertips.

I moved forward. Agron’s grasp slid from my form and I crossed the distance alone. Searchingly, I queried, “What games did we play as children?”

His throat worked. Lips thinned, twisted. He looked away. I placed a hand upon his arm and he relented: “You never tired of hiding: among the camels, even though they were fucking rancid menaces; behind the stock our family transported; beneath carpets and any drapery you could find… You buried yourself in sand once. I was fucking frantic for hours, you little spit.”

I laughed, eyes burning.

“That was how I hid you,” Nileus continued roughly, “when raiders bore down upon our camp. I commanded you to remain and I would find you again. I attempted to rouse a camel to take us both far away, but--the fucking idiot beasts!”

He blew out a furious breath. “A slaver took you. Plucked you from the sand and pulled you over saddle and you--”

Through gritted teeth, he choked out, “You were gone. You were gone, sent to market while the rest of those wretched fucks lounged in camp, pissed upon the bodies of our fathers. Mocked and beat our grandfather ‘til his final breath. And our mother--”

Nileus hunched forward, head bowed near, and whispered, “I did all she asked of me--she helped me to escape and--I was the elder brother and you--my charge to keep you safe--I promised I would find you. I promised!”

Cool droplets struck my chest. His tears or mine, I knew not nor did I care. I pulled him close and he fell into my embrace.

“Nasir,” he beckoned brokenly, “where are you?”

I gasped at the words. Neither Roman nor German, yet I knew this call. Syrian words chiming in concert with faded recollection.

Suddenly, he reared back and grasped my upper arms, a smile blossoming. Nileus singsonged, “I will find you!”

My hands cupped over dribbling nose and pursed lips. My heart hurt. He yet remembered this game.

Helplessly, I nodded, dumbly repeated my brother’s playful threat and solemn vow: “I will find you.”

“Nasir.” He decreed, “You are found. I found you.”

He laughed. He frowned. He wept. Seemingly all at once. I could only imagine my own reaction. I felt nothing beyond the agony. Overwhelming. All-encompassing. Head spinning and lungs burning. I drowned, sucked beneath the waves. Where all Roman cruelties had failed, this single miracle succeeded.

We embraced. We gulped breath. We sank to our knees at fireside.

At length, I recovered enough voice to speak: “Accompany us. To the north.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Yes! We are brothers--our reunion defies Rome--the fucking gods themselves!”

“No. You mistake me for a boy long dead.” Nileus patted my chest. “You have grown strong. It was I who needed to find you. You did not need to be found.”

“Thus you broke no words regarding our relation?”

He forced a wry grin. “You have found good brothers--”

“Be that as it may--”

“Men who fight for honor and glory. I would not have you know the things my hands have done for sake of coin and passage.”

Passage. I leaned back and looked upon Nileus with critical eye. This man had lied, cheated, thieved, tortured, maimed, murdered, and perhaps more in his quest. For purpose of surviving one more day.

“And now that I am found, you would risk your life for what fucking purpose?”

“Perhaps I believe in Spartacus’ cause.”

“Or perhaps you would end your journey,” I confronted, fingers tightening upon his shoulders.

“I would have you far from this place of poison. Safe.”

“I would have you with me.”

“You know not what sort of man I have become--”

“And neither of us know what sort of man you may yet be! Allow us this. Nileus,” I entreated. “Each day you force distance between us permits Rome additional advantage.”

“I am bound here. I gave my word that I would see to charge. This oath -- holding to it is all the honor I can yet claim.”

“I shall stand in your stead.”

Nileus and I spun toward Castus’ voice.

He firmly repeated, “I shall stand in your stead. Here. With Spartacus.”

“Castus?” Duro questioned. “You forget your friends?”

“Far from it.” He smiled toward me and Nileus and spoke with wonder, “The Syrian Nasir, his name known throughout the Republic, calls his brother to return to his arms. I would make attempt -- likewise link my name with Spartacus’ and stand against Rome upon field of battle, and one day perhaps know similar joy. Or at least my family -- should they yet live -- will learn of my fate.” He concluded, “I remain and fight.”

Duro blinked, at a loss for words.

Agron held out his arm toward Nileus, who reluctantly took it. My lover levered the man upright and said, “Embrace opportunity to further Nasir’s happiness. He will have as much need of you upon the far side of the Alps as he does here.”

“Goatfuck. That is truth,” Duro concurred.

“Let us be brothers again,” I urged.

Nileus swore. A Syrian word I did not know. “You stubborn fucking morons. You would have a man -- soiled and ruined -- count himself among you.”

“I have killed fellow slaves upon Roman command,” I reported flatly. “As fugitive, I ransacked villas. Stole supplies. Children and elderly, their lives taken by my blade upon city streets. Slaves I sought to free -- impaled in confusion and chaos. We bear scars and stains. All of us.” I shook my head, rejected: “Soiled and ruined is what Romans have done to themselves. Have you and I not seen enough of it?”

He drew a deep breath. Nodded. Capitulated: “We have.”

When daylight broke upon eastern horizon, Spartacus emerged from tent to find us gathered at threshold. Castus offered proposal of service. Nileus resigned from post. Spartacus accepted both with grace.

“Fight,” Duro sternly ordered Castus, “for your family.”

“And you for yours.”

A moment’s pause. Duro hesitated to release Castus’ arm, but then grip eased and hand cradled the man’s dark cheek. “May we one day break words again,” he murmured on a smile. “I would judge for myself your improvement in crafting insult.”

“I would be a credit to you and make you proud.”

“You already fucking have, my friend.”

A tear spilled from Castus’ eye as Duro nudged the man’s chin down and pressed a kiss to center of forehead. I shifted, seeking the warmth of Agron’s skin, and tucked hale shoulder against edge of chest, skin to skin. Fingertips brushed along my neck, intimate and well received.

“Gratitude--” Castus attempted to reply, tone over-bright. Words halted by interruption.

I blinked at the sight of Duro’s lips pressed to Castus’ in confident kiss.

The Numidian reached for Duro, grasping jaw and neck hard enough to bruise. Duro did not flinch. He stood firm.

And as Castus realized that Duro would not be the one to break their embrace, desperation eased. Touch gentled.

Hm. I could believe that Castus stood capable of being a considerate lover. Perhaps he would find a companion here in the midst of war. After all, Duro and Aurelia had found each other despite grief. Agron and I, amid hopelessness.

This was war, yes, but anything was possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I write conversations where the people are speaking German, I try to use words of Germanic or Anglo-Saxon origin in the place of words that come from a Latin root. So I wrote Duro as saying “sorry” here in this chapter instead of “apologies” and Agron says “mayhap” and “why” instead of “perhaps” or “for what purpose/by what reasoning.”
> 
> So, yeah. Duro and Castus smooch. This is Duro letting Castus say goodbye to him on Castus’ terms. It doesn’t go beyond a kiss, though. Just so you know. Duro is absolutely still very in love with Aurelia.
> 
> Even before I was 100% certain that Castus would appear in APMF, I had this farewell kiss in mind. I mean, I was a little disappointed that nothing happened between Zaria and Duro (until Zaria met Peirastes and then I was like, “OMG OF COURSE THESE TWO ARE PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER”), and I suspected that Duro and Chadara were not going to click (despite Duro’s attraction to her), but I was pretty damn sure that Aurelia would fall for Duro and he for her. I was also pretty sure that Castus would start out infatuated with Nasir but would end up falling in love with Duro (because, hey, who wouldn’t, yeah?). I’m kind of surprised that Duro, Chadara, Aurelia, Donar, and Castus all sorted themselves out exactly like I’d expected they would. I was braced for all kinds of unpredictable Noping and such, but it didn’t happen.
> 
> As I wrote, I was keeping an eye open for an opportunity to explain why Castus’ name is linked with Spartacus’ rebellion in our modern day history books. So maybe this is how that happened?? It’s just the personal details that got switched around (because Castus is not a Gaul or a former gladiator from a ludus in Capua, as historical accounts claim... just as Crixus is not a German, so CLEARLY somebody from way back then didn’t have their facts straight). (^_~)
> 
> Nasir’s brother is a late addition to the storyline. I realized at some point (maybe when I was writing Rebels) that this would be my one shot at a reunion. Due to Nasir’s fame in And Prove More Fierce, it’s entirely possible that his brother would eventually hear rumors about him and decide to investigate -- if only to eliminate the Syrian Nasir of Capua as a possible candidate. But then Nileus learns more about Nasir and gets a good look at him and… maybe this dude really is Nileus’ long lost little brother.
> 
> Oh, and, interestingly, I don't think there's anything in the TV show to indicate that Nasir had an OLDER brother. I guess we just assume that’s the case because Nasir “only recall(s) a brother,” so he must have been very young, and the line “my brother called me Nasir” makes it sound like his brother was someone he looked up to?

**Author's Note:**

> We have now arrived at the end of The March. I sure hope you've enjoyed it.  
> Last chance to leave a kudo for me!  
> Also, it would be delightful to hear from you: tell me what you liked, share your thoughts, give me a hug! (^_^)


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